November 2000
In the moonlight, I study the face of the woman I’ve loved for eighteen years. I’m thankful the moonlight traveled such a vast distance tonight, just so I could see her sleeping.
Sunbeams
My schooling did me a great deal of harm and no good whatever; it was simply dragging a child’s soul through the dirt.
Invasion Of The Classroom
How Corporations Buy Access To Children — An Interview With Alex Molnar
Schools get the Zap Me labs for no upfront cost, but they have to guarantee that children will use them for so many hours a day. And guess what: the browser portal has advertising on it. This means kids’ ability to do their schoolwork is contingent upon their viewing advertising.
Hector Isn’t The Problem
I had known Hector for several months as his teacher, but up to that time I had never really seen him, nor would I have seen him then but for the startling puzzle he presented: he was gate-crashing with a fully paid admission ticket in his pocket. Was he nuts?
Traveling Mercies
I was usually filled with a sense of something like shame until I remembered that wonderful line of Blake’s — that we are here to learn to endure the beams of love — I took a long, deep breath and forced these words out of my strangulated throat: “Thank you.”
We’re Family In Here
I glance sideways at my hospital roommate. Sonya sits erect as a queen in her cranked-up bed, gazing ardently at the goings-on in Julia’s kitchen. Cooking shows are Sonya’s favorite, and she is relieved that I profess to like them, too.
My Father Never
My father never played catch with me when I was a boy — a tomboy, that is. I played catch for hours after school with Skipper, Evan, and Sammy, my friends from the neighborhood. And when they moved away, I played catch with myself, bouncing a tennis ball against the garage wall. But my father never played catch with me.
Any Comments Or Questions?
Girlie slid out like a hot buttered noodle on that Indian-summer night in October — her father’s birthday, in fact.
Love, Michael
To me, my brother was his letters home. Even now, his lucid, correct handwriting remains more vivid in my mind than any picture.
All My Previous Poems
Over and over, / I have submitted poems / to this magazine. / Over and over, / the editor / has rejected them. / Finally, / he accepted / this poem.
— from “this poem”
Dead Letter #4
Ganymede’s out on the hood of the truck, / keeping warm, hoping I’ll relent and let / him in, or more probably thinking nothing, / or perhaps only warm, if there is such a word / in the language of cats.
