IT’S JUST A LITTLE BLOG called “Metaphorager.” I hope it offers respite.
THE PAIN IN MY CHEST Is growing by the hour. I hope it’s heartburn.
IN MANY WAYS, THIS 1958 book is better than the earlier On the Road. Kerouac’s signature stream-of-consciousness narrative style is more flowy, and the novel’s lionized centerperson (poet Gary Snyder, or “Japhy Ryder” as tDB calls him) a more noble…
IT”S SPACE ON THE CLOCK Between the Tick and the Tock. Have a good Shabbos!
THAT-WHICH-SOME-CALL-“GOD“: Universal, non-dual. What is It for you?
Mom in the drug store Called out to her son: “Brooklyn!” Am I getting old?
Slate-thin clouds cover shoulders that lately knew sun. Make up your mind, God.
Scary loud gusts brush From the trees’ green-flowing hair Stray twigs and branches.
ELEVEN A. M., September the twenty-fifth — Rain hits Sonoma.
EVEN AFTER TEN YEARS, THE memories and pain are still fresh when I think of them. I don’t think of them often. My habit in those days was to check the Ha’aretz news ticker with my morning coffee. “Hmm… soccer…
EVIDENTLY, SHE WROTE A POEM in 1928 called “Dirge With Music.” I have not yet read any of her other works, but I hope they’re like this one. The last stanza says it all: Down, down, down into the darkness…
HAD I NOT BEEN SWIFT, He would have brought the rat in. It’s the thought that counts.