Writing everything about everything.

The Best of The Week

"You want to do what?" the man said dangerously, as I asked him about supplies at the art store.

The West Coast has a lot going for it, but there's some aspects of the East that are just, fantastic. The West Coast has palm trees, cleaner, newer stuff. Hipper stuff. But there's a certain beauty, a certain retro beauty - to gritty Gotham, to the twisted trees in New York State that come straight out of Sleepy Hollow, of the mists of Mystic, Connecticut that clearly inspired H. P. Lovecraft and the falling over, old, snapping thin slate graves in Salem, Massachussetts - like nilla wafers parked in banana pudding. 

Travels around Virginia have shown me the awesomeness of this, too. Get outside the metro areas and you have graveyards dating back to the Revolutionary War - faded by acid rain and time. 

When I visited Seattle, Washington I also wanted to engage in this practice, though the graves are newer, at the graves of Bruce Lee and Brandon Lee.


There is not much I can say

except his eyes have darkened

and in his half-dreams, once familiar

long cold fingers reach out

as if trying to grasp onto something.

Attempting to orient him, I pointed to

a full moon among white clouds, lingering

in a late August sky still blue,

the striation of purple as

the sun disappeared off to the west.