1. A woolly bundle of infant said, I’m ready to be discovered. When I live again, I want to be feathered. What vision makes the blind man cry? Shame arrives in pairs, the teacher learning from the student. Infant to mother says, This delightful woman is the same package torn open without cause. Something with gravity fell upon it. Mother to infant says, I gathered … Continue reading How I Arrived At My First Conclusion by Rich Ives
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
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
the year of locusts the hour of the further dust a dark smudge of a man father dead before the child was born and this was father blocked and spiked above the neglected memory weeds a squared-off dog with shoulders like a mailbox there’s room for any message you want to send call this love a tablecloth and the old hunger sits politely while anticipation … Continue reading “Scuffle Town” by Rich Ives
