by Jess Earl Mama told me that thunder is just the sound of angels bowling. The angel outside my window doesn’t have hands but maybe it just can’t bowl, like how Katie can’t eat peanut butter. The angel doesn’t look like the ones in Mama’s paintings; it looks like a…
By Gerald Solomon Rackety Amsterdam, a market stall, old disused books, two guys at chess. Heedless of rain and passers by, making and working their puzzle. Leaning head to head, nothing said. Rain shower, green awnings, wet canvas! Every raindrop a bright sky loosening from rims, becoming nothing. Two men,…
By Gerald Solomon Pictures of an artist’s pictures, in a book. Diego. He sits on a chair. All of a piece. A chair, curve-backed, body-shaped― already something of a puzzle. (A chair says it must be itself alone if to mimic human flesh and bone.) A bare floor, an elder…