Z.

Shannon and I watched as the tribe of hobos filled their car with containers of loose change.  There were four of them working together, unburying holes in the ground or moving makeshift covers made out of wooden pallets to the side, exposing crates full of bottles, sacks, bags and jars full of coins of all sorts.  One by one they'd extract these containers and move them to the trunk of the car. It wasn't a make or a model I recognized, the name long faded from the car's rear end. It looked old, though. Something from the early 90s, perhaps.  But it ran. It was maintained, even if it wasn't luxurious.  Occasionally the four hobos, led by the main figure who we quickly identified as answering to the name "Virgil", would mutter incoherencies to themselves.  "Those who know nothing know something about things that those who know something know nothing about," they repeated off and on, with other similar-sounding but equally cryptic credos mixed in.  Fro...

In a language-driven world, there can scarcely be any greater relief than allowing your words to fail. "Words, words, words."  —William Shakespeare.  The relentless emphasis on communication has revealed an even greater attraction to the ambiguous, the subtle, and the unsaid.  One can be starved for speechlessness.  Especially when confronted with what language falls furthest short of capturing. I could deign to describe, at length, every part of you I'm fascinated by. Yet, the endeavor only approaches—never arrives. A description of that which arrests me—a look, or glance—a gesture, a nod—would still fail to capture the captivation.  Better, then, to simply allow those moments to slip on by—unremarked upon, but not unmarked.  "Words fail me." What a relief. Refusing to wrestle those fleeting moments into clumsy verbiage chisels them even deeper into the mind's eye. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" said some dude, once. Should I sew so...

There was a knock at the door yesterday. I got up to open it. I wondered, is it a delivery? Perhaps Mormons on a mission? I briefly reflected on one particularly memorable conversation I had with two Mormon missionaries years ago. I wondered silently how they were doing—when I reached out to grab my front door handle. I opened my door and to my complete surprise, standing on my porch was neither Mormon, deliveryman, or deliverywoman. It was an alien. A fucking alien.  I gawked. Its hand was still raised upright from having knocked on my door. "Hey," it said, nervously. In utter shock, I stepped backwards. Its realness was unmistakable. It wasn't a man in a suit. It wasn't a hologram. It wasn't AI or a hallucination. It was a real alien. As sure as seeing you or whoever else at my front door. I could do little to disguise my bewilderment. It sighed in resignation at my reaction. "That's right," it said. "I'm an alien." I stammered, tryin...

Accursed be thee, yon white nose hair! Ne'er seen a strand in color so long and fair.      A wretched pale spire of thy damned kin,      Thou hast grown too far o'er mine own chin,     To belie  the youthful mirth of thy wearer's face,     Flaunting thy thread-like wisp in mock disgrace. Bereft of merit and void of charm art thou, A ghastly figure now waves unfurled upon my prow.      Thy wind-blown sprawls o'erreach thy nostril's tomb,      Clutching like a phantom from thy cavernous womb.      O! w hat vile purpose dost thy girded ivory will intend?      What quarry seek’st thou, that heaven dare not send? Would'st thou not resign to dress in shadow? Prithee, diminish thyself in my beard's dark meadow.     Shroud thy weedy form in concealment's strength,     Spare my neighbor's glance thy twisted, gnarled length.     Do not tempt to steal a ...