- HOME PAGE
- B&YDog Book Shop
- Al Ortolani
- Keith Moul
- Eleanor Bennett
- Emily Treakle-Chase
- Richard Kostelanetz
- Wayne Mason
- Carol Alexander
- Felino A. Soriano
- Mike Berger
- Ben Rasnic
- Corey Mesler
- Jay Passer
- Scott Keeney
- Stephen Gilchrist
- Steve Minchin
- Michelle Reale
- Lin Powell
- Amanda Clare Krueger
- B W Archer
- Barbara Young
- Julia Ciesielska
- Jason Gordon
- Lewis Gesner
- Linda Crate
- Mihir Chitre
- Rachel Kearney
- Tracie Morell
- Walter Ruhlmann
- William Keckler
- Bios
- SPRING ISSUE #1 2010
- SUMMER FALL ISSUE #2 2010
- WINTER ISSUE #3 2010
- SPRING ISSUE #4 2011
- SUMMER ISSUE #5 2011
- FALL ISSUE #6 2011
- WINTER ISSUE #7 2012
- SPRING ISSUE #8 2012
- SUMMER ISSUE #9 2012
- Links
- Donations
Inserts for Building a Retablo
(Insert snapshot of 49 Ford
dashboard, nothing works
except the speedometer,
the glass is cracked
and resembles an eye
winking up at you. Hang
a blue bandana from the
steering column.)
(Place clay statue of a contemplative,
black and white robes, sandals,
orange Frisbee bouncing of his head)
(Paint black a cardboard box,
scattering
glitter for stars, call it
Outer Space, airbrush
a giant breast hovering
above Kansas, lots of
sunflowers, buffalo,
meadowlarks. No clouds
please.)
(Insert a rose in a water glass
surrounded by Chihuahua desert,
mesquite, lizards, rattlesnakes,
and an abandoned Ford Pinto)
(Toss in a pinch of cayenne
pepper, red as sex and grinning
with the shine of Texas sun)
(Insert a plastic model of Bobby
Geronimo holding a black
parasol above White Dog
while Dog strums his guitar.
Set them on a mesa top,
thousands of jack rabbits,
road runners and armadillos
have gathered to listen.
If real animals cannot be found,
borrow cement ones from
the lawns in El Paso. Promise
to return them or drive
a flatbed with Mexican plates.)
(Insert a boy fishing
in knee-high rubber boots. His pole
is bent with the weight of a pile
of duckweed he has dredged up.
In the background is one small tree
and one orange fire. Only the fire
is in color. Create from seeds.)
(Roll a glass
marble, mostly blue with
little swirls of white.
This marble should look
vaguely similar to the earth
when seen from the moon. Put it
beside the seed illustration
of the fishing boy.)
(Use Randy Buck's
straw hat, fill it with
three days worth of beer bottles,
a chili cookbook, dusty boots
and a Xerox of a snapshot of Maria
smiling faintly. Only her hair
and the beer bottles are colored.
Dull auburn.)
(steal
a pre-Columbian mask,
mount it
on a sapling of grease wood)
(Place random sugar
skulls throughout the retablo,
one for every friend
who comes to mind.
Save one for the living,
for those you've forgotten,
those you’ve never thought of.
Let one dissolve in your
mouth like every sweet
thought that has slipped away.)
Burning the Back Porch
Dear Randy,
Bringing in the first
logs of the season,
I pause, starring into
the empty firebox
like a man examining
his future. WTF
What wood is this? I ask.
Click Send
Father Ray stumbles in,
throws off his coat
and rubs his hands together
as if they were long dead branches.
(the old back porch he says lol)
Got that fire going yet,
Brother Andrew?
I strike the match,
it ignites the
darkness of the firebox
like orange neon.
White smoke flies
from my fingers,
and vanishes up the flue.
Click Send
Thinking of you,
Andy
Click Send
Andy the Monk,
I read your email twice. Came up
with a memory of camping with Pop
and you and maybe Bobby, I can't
be sure. Pop was starting a fire
by the pond. His hands were cold,
shaking like flippers on a pin ball game.
He kept blowing in them. Whiskey.
Whiskey breath. Warm and sour in the
cold wind. When the willow twigs,
finally caught. They turned white,
ashen white like very fragile paper.
When the wind blew, they collapsed
and scattered. One of them blew off
above the water, and I wondered if maybe
it was still warm, or if it had turned
like a snowflake turns, icy hot.
Love me, Love my ash, Randy
Click Send
Chainsaw
Pop is ice skating.
The sky, a blue gray
smear of cloud and distance.
He has his back to us,
black top coat flapping in the wind.
The ice is lighter than the sky.
Suddenly, Pop is skating
across the sky. The farm pond,
a blue gray smear of cloud
and sunset.
A yellow Stihl splits the sky.
The ice breaks
and Pop flaps his coat
erratically, rising
into the gray
like a man who is trying
desperately to fly.
I wake, happy that the baby
crying in the dimness is all
part of my dream. Then I feel
Maria throw away the covers.
There's a baby in the house.
Maria brought her home from
the hospital with her.
She's always finding stuff.
The baby's the size of a roll of paper towels.
I know that because we stopped
for groceries on the way home.
Then unloaded them all: baby, paper towels,
milk, panty liners, pampers, aspirin,
Coors onto the kitchen table.
The baby was smaller than the towels,
but larger than the six pack.
I slipped out onto
the porch swing. From the window
I could hear Maria singing that
when the bough breaks thing.
Scary as hell at 3 a.m.
(Insert snapshot of 49 Ford
dashboard, nothing works
except the speedometer,
the glass is cracked
and resembles an eye
winking up at you. Hang
a blue bandana from the
steering column.)
(Place clay statue of a contemplative,
black and white robes, sandals,
orange Frisbee bouncing of his head)
(Paint black a cardboard box,
scattering
glitter for stars, call it
Outer Space, airbrush
a giant breast hovering
above Kansas, lots of
sunflowers, buffalo,
meadowlarks. No clouds
please.)
(Insert a rose in a water glass
surrounded by Chihuahua desert,
mesquite, lizards, rattlesnakes,
and an abandoned Ford Pinto)
(Toss in a pinch of cayenne
pepper, red as sex and grinning
with the shine of Texas sun)
(Insert a plastic model of Bobby
Geronimo holding a black
parasol above White Dog
while Dog strums his guitar.
Set them on a mesa top,
thousands of jack rabbits,
road runners and armadillos
have gathered to listen.
If real animals cannot be found,
borrow cement ones from
the lawns in El Paso. Promise
to return them or drive
a flatbed with Mexican plates.)
(Insert a boy fishing
in knee-high rubber boots. His pole
is bent with the weight of a pile
of duckweed he has dredged up.
In the background is one small tree
and one orange fire. Only the fire
is in color. Create from seeds.)
(Roll a glass
marble, mostly blue with
little swirls of white.
This marble should look
vaguely similar to the earth
when seen from the moon. Put it
beside the seed illustration
of the fishing boy.)
(Use Randy Buck's
straw hat, fill it with
three days worth of beer bottles,
a chili cookbook, dusty boots
and a Xerox of a snapshot of Maria
smiling faintly. Only her hair
and the beer bottles are colored.
Dull auburn.)
(steal
a pre-Columbian mask,
mount it
on a sapling of grease wood)
(Place random sugar
skulls throughout the retablo,
one for every friend
who comes to mind.
Save one for the living,
for those you've forgotten,
those you’ve never thought of.
Let one dissolve in your
mouth like every sweet
thought that has slipped away.)
Burning the Back Porch
Dear Randy,
Bringing in the first
logs of the season,
I pause, starring into
the empty firebox
like a man examining
his future. WTF
What wood is this? I ask.
Click Send
Father Ray stumbles in,
throws off his coat
and rubs his hands together
as if they were long dead branches.
(the old back porch he says lol)
Got that fire going yet,
Brother Andrew?
I strike the match,
it ignites the
darkness of the firebox
like orange neon.
White smoke flies
from my fingers,
and vanishes up the flue.
Click Send
Thinking of you,
Andy
Click Send
Andy the Monk,
I read your email twice. Came up
with a memory of camping with Pop
and you and maybe Bobby, I can't
be sure. Pop was starting a fire
by the pond. His hands were cold,
shaking like flippers on a pin ball game.
He kept blowing in them. Whiskey.
Whiskey breath. Warm and sour in the
cold wind. When the willow twigs,
finally caught. They turned white,
ashen white like very fragile paper.
When the wind blew, they collapsed
and scattered. One of them blew off
above the water, and I wondered if maybe
it was still warm, or if it had turned
like a snowflake turns, icy hot.
Love me, Love my ash, Randy
Click Send
Chainsaw
Pop is ice skating.
The sky, a blue gray
smear of cloud and distance.
He has his back to us,
black top coat flapping in the wind.
The ice is lighter than the sky.
Suddenly, Pop is skating
across the sky. The farm pond,
a blue gray smear of cloud
and sunset.
A yellow Stihl splits the sky.
The ice breaks
and Pop flaps his coat
erratically, rising
into the gray
like a man who is trying
desperately to fly.
I wake, happy that the baby
crying in the dimness is all
part of my dream. Then I feel
Maria throw away the covers.
There's a baby in the house.
Maria brought her home from
the hospital with her.
She's always finding stuff.
The baby's the size of a roll of paper towels.
I know that because we stopped
for groceries on the way home.
Then unloaded them all: baby, paper towels,
milk, panty liners, pampers, aspirin,
Coors onto the kitchen table.
The baby was smaller than the towels,
but larger than the six pack.
I slipped out onto
the porch swing. From the window
I could hear Maria singing that
when the bough breaks thing.
Scary as hell at 3 a.m.