Football is nearly over. What a buzz kill February is . . . what a debilitating, verklemptian funk.
I like smoky, thoughtful music that doesn’t hurry. I like whisky-straight and cities with a little rust to them. If the universe is expanding, then so our our hearts, right?
I don’t believe in one-party systems or Aristotle’s universal truths. What do I believe in? I believe in kids.
I’m really hoping JPL might hire me as its resident poet, where I might knit together space travel, technology, distant nebulae, and Shakespeare’s best sonnets.
When you achieve hygge (pronounced hoo-ga), you’ve found a cozy contentment in life’s simple pleasures: friends, family, warm blankets, candlelight.
My dream workout? You dart from one slot machine to the next. When you finish, Dolly Parton brings you a shrimp cocktail.
In mid-January, “even the moon shines with only half a heart,” as Jane Kenyon put it (read her if you get the chance)
We welcomed the new year, at the float depot under a dank overpass: Roses. Glue. Freeway fumes. Haven’t been this high since college.
January is made for old Hobbits like me. There is rain in the hills, cotton in the canyons. It’s a good month for bulky sweaters…throaty old singers…snoring dogs.
My buddy turned the tree trunk into a series of wooden spoons that commemorate my grandbaby’s first Christmas.