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City Boy

Editor’s Note

The Cripple Liberation Front Marching Band Blues

(Part IV)

My hands begin to hurt from the constant pressure of the crutches. Jaggers of pain run up my arm. It feels as if I have bared every nerve in my arms. I am sweating, and the sweat runs down my forehead, into my eyes. I have to stop each few steps to wipe the sweat from my eyes. Then I put sore hands on crutches again, and walk a few more steps, then I must stop to wipe my eyes again.

To Know We Are Loved

An Excerpt From Reshad Feild’s The Invisible Way

The frustration was intense. It was a sense of pain, a yearning to know something that could change my life and perhaps the lives of those around me. I felt irritated with myself. Why couldn’t I find the words to express the longing?

Stealing Souls

Thoughts On Photography

I never took quite the same kind of photograph again. From that moment on I regarded the taking of a photograph as a personal act, as personal as the writing of a poem — deep and perilous, intellectual and beautiful.

Stories

I once visited a man who had just checked into Room 111 of an old hotel. He knew neither letters nor numbers. A friend asked his room number. “I’m in the room with three sticks,” he said.

Editor’s Note

Favorite Places

The mountains, the Nags Head Casino, a cave in a thicket of forsythia

Walls

I don’t like what I see around me: people with big cars, four bedroom houses and mobile homes and closets full of clothes. I don’t want to know I am one of the people who have so much in a world of people who have so little.

The Eleventh Man

As I trudge up the road from the bus stop, I pause to catch my breath as well as the view. Before me loom towering white cliffs; beneath are the lush fields and orchards of the moshav, and beyond them is the Sea of Galilee or the Kinneret, as it is called in Hebrew, “the violin.” The curving road is lined with small stone houses; I had been told that Elyah’s was the last hut, on the highest slope.