The Diamonds of his Art

Mr. Molassess was a steeple chaser; he couldn’t help it; he had been that way all his life. Put a steeple in front of him, and puff he was off in a cloud of dust—which, granted this was Mr. Molassess, was none too cloudy, nor too dusty. He looked up just in time to see

Big Fish Eat Little Fish

If you would like to read this narrative from the beginning, go to Mr. and Mrs. Molassass   Mr. Molasses often segued between trust and distrust of his self and that self’s betrayal. He was never suspicious. Mrs. Molasses, trended in the opposite direction. She was lusciously suspicious. Today she had her cross hairs on

Confessional

The tunic was burnt in the castle, the letter and the rose leaf of a lady unknown.— —Rainer Maria Rilke Mrs. Molasses could talk the talk and she could walk the walk. And she loved to walk where Sweetness walked. Unfortunately, since her fall Mrs. Molasses walked incredibility slowly —even slower than Mr. Molasses, if

The Present

The past is far more real, or at any rate, more resilient, than the present. —Andrei Tarkovski   Mrs. Molasses would always remember the present. The look on Mr. Molasses’s face, when he realized what Mrs. Molasses had gotten him for his birthday: a deerstalker cap —and not just any deerstalker cap—was too precious to

Beautiful Indigoes

One hardly knew what to think. The grassHad fooled them with a breath of night air.When the zephyr arrived, it found certainMessages that not even a good godCould contradict. It was fateful, unfair,And convincing. It was an eve thatNo Adam could hope to increase or cease to love. Poetry depends on what all poets warn

Wallace Stevens: Adorning the Rock

  This is the longest piece I ever wrote. I published it on extrasimile in four parts. it also appeared (and still appears, though it difficult to find) on00 arduity.com. You will be forgiven if you don’t read it, but it is something of f an Ars Poetica for me.       Donald Hall

This Jolly Rogue (A Dream Language)

Just as sleep can become a rock, only A jolly rogue can become a dream language large enough for what a nightmare stands for. For what are dreams if not the ground We stand and fight for, eh Horatio?\ And what a stone is, is what a rock can be When divided too many times—pebbles,

The Songs of Innocence and Experience

For John Looker

An empty space left to occupy a meadow: Hey, bouquet, let’s play.

The Little Ones

I have been thinking of unearthing some of my old prose pieces that I wrote when Extrasimile was a mere babe in my arms. Though some of the material is dated, most is not. Or it is dated in a good way: it will help by providing a perspective on our current situation. Much of