With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
Subscribe and Save up to 45%
Chuck Taylor is a writer and publisher who lives in Austin, Texas.
How can we continue to have poetry without a sense of spirit? Here we live in a time of the breakdown of traditional values and the questioning of traditional religions, yet where are the poets writing of the ecstatic and seeking new visions, or reanimating, from new perspectives, old ones?
There are only two goats. The big one’s got horns and a beard under its chin and I’m sure he’s male until the little one reaches under and butts her udders, fat with milk, and starts sucking. My oldest kid and I stroke her greasy hide. She seems gentle enough.
My brother is weird. I never know what he’s going to do next. Like the time he decides around three o’clock on an August afternoon that he’s going to climb the Franklin Mountains.