Frank’s Log V

Blah blah blah Pigs goats fiddlesticks nightmare schism A Wednesday left unturned. Nether regions of light and mustard. It’s unjust to pickle your leftovers if the dogs are unfed. That’s why clowns don’t joke at home. So go back to the basics, give yourself a test: What’s the square root of life? Why don’t the… More Frank’s Log V

Frank’s Log IV

Alphabet soup. Tourniquet loop. Flip-flopping summer troop with Albanian ethnic roots. Did the word “diary” come from a mispronunciation of “diarrhea?” The words don’t matter to illiterates, bro. They can’t read. Tell ’em on the mountain, or whatever. If I were a spaceman, I’d be Spiff. I’d have lunch with Taylor Swift: Finger sandwiches and big… More Frank’s Log IV

Frank’s Log III

My voice. My own fucking voice. Well, who knows? That one fret on that one string of that one guitar effects a certain note, but we wouldn’t say that fret has its own voice. That one key thingy on that one clarinet doesn’t have its own voice. The instrument is the voice. So what frickin… More Frank’s Log III

Frank’s Log II

If you’ve ever read Hemingway, you know it needn’t be pretty. I’ve read a book and a half. The last time my shoes grew too tight, I can’t remember. That’s the thing about life – you don’t recall the past unless it hurts. Or even if you harken back to pleasant memories, the pain of separation… More Frank’s Log II

Jackson Pollock and the Periwinkle Alligator – A poem?

Red blue seven white Antelope cheers Running beige Today or maybe another time Alphabet sunrise Making peaches scream Yellow-green anger floods And spatial snakes Who’s gold With me under textural siege Explain the sky while I It’s true, that fuchsia shines Periwinkle alligator                                        unfolding in my arms or yours Nothing says “New York” like tangerine… More Jackson Pollock and the Periwinkle Alligator – A poem?

I started reading some David Foster Wallace the other day – a book of short stories. I finished the first story. It was good, but I don’t know how to bring it up in conversation. Outside, the trees do not have leaves. I only counted three clouds in the sky. A dog barked this morning.… More Some Sort of Pine – A short story