If the world doesn’t really exist, I reasoned, then neither do I. I don’t have to do anything. But if the world is purely energy and thought is energy and receiving thought is more energy, if you’re receiving this, then I have to think about doing something in order to think about not having to do anything, and right at that moment I don’t want … Continue reading Once Referred to As A Hymn by Rich Ives
When he’s alone too much, he starts to feel crowded. He can see some of himself attached to the bit of slug news posted on the ivy. A quiet enough man can find his own wind in the spaces between snowflakes, but a too quiet man finds a storm he cannot recognize as his own. This man tends to sleep when things get too exciting. … Continue reading Of Course I’m Still Sleeping but I Feel Radiant and Extended by Rich Ives
Only that one time the welcome hiss of choices greeted the old woman with heated voices, and the squall-like approach of lunar friendship escaped the sky of its open gentle anger. Perhaps before, the woman had been given just another form of money that wore its empty clothes to her costly service. The given body’s plenty contained a ruby-red melt of sharp pepper heart. Stained with … Continue reading Never a Lamb Bleating So Softly as the Waning Moon by Rich Ives
This happened in Detroit or Iceland. This is inside me. It’s not something you can fully comprehend unless you’re carrying a giant measuring device of Celtic origin or one of those mirrored spy cameras that allow you adequate perspective. This is a territory. This is a bringing together of disparate leaves. I fix things, an elk-like tendency to bugle, old rose bushes with too many … Continue reading Morality and Intention in the Novel of Faulty Utensils by Rich Ives
