Reflections on the UN

Abattoir

This was beginning to seem like a bad idea. To drag your mother out of a warm bed on a cold winter’s morning—and on a false pretext—was childish and silly. Sweetness grimaced. She had told her mother that she wanted to get some background for her film from someone who had been to Coney Island

That is Enough

As Porphyry writes poetry, it as ifthe words were cut deep in to stone. HeWrites so that you will listen and rememberthat he is an old man, saved by trees, saved bythe land as if it were an island suspiciously placed — it is a home to him, an igloo in the snow,an oasis in the

The Me Addition

The World from Space

  A hollow head Left like a little fellow And left standing At attention and alone— A simple iteration That lights use to keep What some call belief And others call solace Alive in the snow, As winter’s peacocks, ferns, And teeth take turns to feed the ducks until nothing is left, Except for a

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Leviathen

Mr. Molasses stepped out onto the stage. He was standing alone at the very altar Baron Frankenstein had used to create his huge but hideous and nameless monster. Mr. Molasses, who had his own monster and who thought it compared pretty well to the Boris Karloff version, looked lovingly over at his at the manikin

Our Father

Father Paul had expected maybe five or six people to attend his lectures on St. Paramours. He got twenty-five Which was amazing. This was going to work. Over the next few weeks, he was giving peripatetic lectures on the cross-shape nave, the frescoes on the ceiling and of course the huge stained-glass window that dominated

The New Nostradamus

Mrs. Molasses tasted the apple and it was good. Sweetness tasted the apple nd it was sweet. Mother and daughter agreed; honeydew was a far better apple than the pomegranates they were touting at Fisher’s Fresh Fruit. They were too seedy. Mrs. Molasses bought all her vegetables in the Garden of Arden. They had two