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TAI YRA MANO MOTINA (THIS IS MY MOTHER)
It’s odd how your stature has grown as I dream of you occasionally staring at your yearbook picture. It was only four years ago that I knew you existed, but hadn’t the faintest idea of who you were, anything about your life, why you gave me up, and, therefore who it was I might have…
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WHAT’S IN A
He is fond of the name Alejandro Carlos Ernesto Rodrigo Guttierez. The fact is, he loves the name. He knows it has a certain nobility to it. It enbodies and conveys strengh and character. It is a source of pride and great satisfaction. The name makes him taller, bolder. There is so much in a…
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FROM BEYOND
My grandmother speaks to me from time to time, in a voice that sounds remarkably like my own, but the dead borrow voices, it is so much easier than exercising their own, and there is so little need for words once they leave. She hasn’t changed all that much, still opinionated, still ready to have…
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IS THAT SO 沙石集 三
If you find an orphan do you take him as your own. Do you feed and shelter him and offer him your name. Does he sit at your side in silent meditation. Do you willingly accept the scorn of your neighbors for your bastard child? If his mother later comes, will you part with him…
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PLACES
My mother, the goddess of cliches, was overly fond of repeating that “There’s a place for everything, and everything should be in its place.” I must admit that, in addition to hating her cliches and platitudes, I grew ever less certain of my place in her world. She was more than willing to assume my…
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A SIMPLE QUESTION
A woman walks up to me and asks, “can you juggle the salt and pepper shakers?” but I know what she really wants is for me to bind her wounds and drag the sun quickly from the horizon. I pick up two apples and a plum but the plum falls to the floor and rolls…
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THIRD EYE, NEEDING GLASSES
You ask me what is the first thing I can remember, and seem surprised when I tell you memory is much like a Buddhist river, never the same twice. Memory is a stage and I am one to forget my lines, today it’s the window in the back of a Miami Beach bus amazed at…
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FROM BEYOND
“Call your mother,” she says. She speaks in the voice of my mother. It grates on my nerves in just the same way it always did. I listen carefully. She repeats herself. I reminded her that she died two years ago. I tell her I tried to call for months after her passing, but there…
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THREE MORE TRANSCRIPTS OF ENTRIES FROM THE TAPE RECORDED JOURNALS OF YETTA GOLDSTEIN
ENTRY: March 27, 1971 So, finally he’s here. Nine months, what God, another joke? Okay, she ate the damned apple, so stick it to the snake. But what would you know, another man. For six hours I’m lying there, dying from pain before the shmendrick walks in like some king, smiles at all the cutesy…
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an old writer and his words 