by Warren Gaston | Jan 24, 2020
Sitting in the Public Library of Manhattan Beach, California several miles south of L.A., I glance up from a biography of Susan Sontag and see out the windows the repetitive Pacific two blocks away. Surfers in seal suits rest among swells , wait upon waves, alert to...
by Warren Gaston | Jan 22, 2020
How many words can I learn before dying, words right for an articulate old age? My brain wants to know. My muscles want to know. Also my bones. Also my paper and pen. I want to live – literally. I was deprived of an articulate beginning. As an infant I had no words to...
by Warren Gaston | Jan 20, 2020
In a split second looking up, my retina thickens with sunlight, sunlight thickens to vast blue sky, blue sky thickens to black wings swooping, dark movement thickens into an object, the object thickens into a noun: [crow] the noun disappears into the quicksand of...
by Warren Gaston | Jan 17, 2020
So much depends upon gravity; toilet paper spooling off a roll, ice clinking in a water glass, rope-soap hanging from a father’s neck, ink flowing from a pen, a wife falling soft into her chair. Somewhere in the air, a passenger plane defies all odds, works perfectly,...
by Warren Gaston | Jan 15, 2020
Sometimes when I turn away from a mirror I wonder if the image of my face lingers in the silvered glass. One time I turned back quickly and was pleased to find my face waiting.
by Warren Gaston | Jan 12, 2020
And I, sitting in my car in the parking lot, wonder what went wrong. The weight of years finally catching up? Looking at the unoccupied blue Ford Escape next to me, I imagine them sitting on a love seat in the counselor’s office, a short length of opposition between...
