corvus

That's crazy!! As paya said, there are only 365 days in a year... On the other hand, you look pretty happy running. I've not gone to the gym nearly as frequently as you have, but I've been getting better returns than in the past after I started taking some protein powder. But then I'm building up vanity and not mileage.

This title interested me, because my guy is so anti-religious it's almost a religion: his parents - mother especially - are hardcore Catholics, and I honestly think he's been hurt by the experience. So I don't mind when he goes out of his way to be a bit iconoclastic. (I myself am not religious - I do find the stories and metaphors to be powerful and real.) I don't know on what terms the two of you take religion and each others' religion, but it might be helpful to relate it to one's personal history, for example, if one is used to certain traditions, if one had a powerful experience in a temple, etc. That works better than these isolated images and words and terms. I'm glad, also, that you've found a guy you like.

I'm sure you know the Korean group The Wonder Girls? Their " " song was quiiiite a hit when I was in Singapore this summer. Can't help you with boybands - apologies - and I'm generally lost in my world of classical. But, I quite like the Swedish Laleh ( ) and the American indie Bon Iver ( ).

Wow, congratulations! Good luck to everyone involved, including the 18 eggs. I appreciate your sharing your adventures with us. For me, it's an inspiration as well for what is possible in my future.

This poem starts with such great rhythm. The first four lines are all two-beat lines, describing the death of a relationship. The funneling into one beat with "Yes" provides great impact. The poem goes on with the same rhythm and the same sentiment, sealing what seems to be an inexorable end: "Eternal turns infernal. / Disbelief confronts relief." But a wonderful turn comes with the next line: "You are so beautiful" It succeeds because it's so disarming, it's something that even the bitterness of "infernal" and "disbelief" can't quench. And the long 'o' sounds ("so" and "beautiful") have echoes from before -- eternal, infernal. The next line is another one-beater, "I wish," and the wish is so modest after the Dickinsonian stretches to the "forever" and "eternal": "I wish / We shared a home." But where can this "imagined" wish go? It goes to the "muse" -- the inability of the speaker to drop the thoughts of "you" lead him seek recourse in the muse. But another wonderful turn happens here, in the characterization of the "muse" -- she is "a curse for now," and a "sound that pounds." I think this poet has great governance in the introduction of the suddenly erotic -- it's great. The final two lines wrap it up with an enjambment and caesura: "The second beat of two / Missing, my life thru." It's as though this poem has framed an entire life -- loss and love, beauty, eroticism -- and now it's "thru."

THE REST STOP corvus The Ragdens always went to a horseback-riding ranch in Strawberry for their summer vacation, and Paul Ragden always drove. It was a four-hour trip that began in farmland, and quickly became wide stretches of dust and dried grass, brittle beneath the California sky. Sally Ragden, eleven and restless, was scanninga travel brochure in the front seat. Her mother sat behind her, keeping a large straw hat angled against the midday sun. "How do you spell ‘mesme

Paul Ragden takes his family on a summer vacation. The unexpected almost occurs.

5. Up until that moment on the couch, I'd known that I liked Alec. I'd be the world's densest bloke not to. But while kissing him and feeling my whole body singing with hot sparks, my feelings definitely moved up a notch. I can sort of imagine it: a yellow sticky with the word "NICK" detaching from a shelf with the word "LIKE," and fluttering up to a higher shelf, emblazoned with the words: "IN LOVE." I wasn't really aware of it then, of course. I wasn't aware of anything at all,

4. Melina called after I'd got back from my morning run, but before I'd made much of a start on breakfast. "Are you busy right now?" "Well, I just broke open two eggs." "Oh, pancakes? Can I come over?" "Eh... Just scrambled eggs, actually, but if you're making pancakes, you can come over." "Great! I'll be over in ten minutes. Um, that's okay, isn't it? Your mom won't mind?" "My mom's not here. See you in a bit." We hung up, and I put the bowl with the egg

3. I didn't like any of my mother's boyfriends. The closest I ever got to any of them was an occasional "hello" and some half-assed questions about school. Nelson suggested several times that I beat them up. I kind of agreed every time that it was a good idea, but it never happened. About a year and a half after my dad left, my mom started spending a lot of time with my middle school History teacher. Call me slow, but it wasn't until I saw him kissing her cheek in the driveway that I

2. Melina was the sort of person who’d talk your ear off if you let her. It was probably a good thing, then, she wasn’t the sort of person to wait for you to respond, as I was tuning her out while eating the sandwich I’d made for lunch. Something she said, though, pitched me back to earth. “What?” “I heard,” said Melina, “that you had a fight with Darius Wigglesworth’s girlfriend.” “Who?” “Darius Wigglesworth.” “Yeah, who the hell’s that?” Melina’s eyes got rea

1. Senior spring was one of those things that you were supposed to look to forward to starting from preschool. Four glorious months that would make up for twelve years of misery. That’s what everyone said, at least. Things have a way of not working out the way they should. That Monday afternoon in the school parking lot, I was thinking about something else entirely. I was thinking about my mom’s birthday—which was today—and the fact that she was going to celebrate it with her boyfriend, St

"Old wounds have a way of opening when they should have healed. Nick Raimondi isn’t too fond of his mother’s love life, and even less fond of some of his more stuck-up classmates, particularly one Darius Wigglesworth. He feels a lot more warmer about Alec, a junior he rescued from a rabid cheerleader in the school parking lot. Life, though, has a way of dealing the most unexpected cards."

"You bet I'm ready to go back," said Bud. It was the last night of the term. Foster hmm'ed and tapped his fingers against the marble. The melody in his head was shifting, modulating in careful steps from A minor to C. "I'm sick of this campus... You there, Foster?" "Yes," Foster said, grinning sheepishly, "I am. Sorry." "So what song was that?" "Um..." They had no names, really, the songs he made up. The names he'd come up with never really stuck, at least not in his mind. "It's a

"Bud doesn't know who he is anymore, and Foster just wants his music. Both are going home for the summer after two years at college. Neither knows if the home they've always known is still the home they've once known."

thanks much for the review. And hey, Asian males with unhappy childhoods have to stick together, right?

thanks for the review, I'm glad you enjoyed it and didn't think poorly of me due to the 'twist' ending.

Pale Beloved, where are you? Lover of my shadow, lover of all shadows of my lovers? I did not imagine you there, but now that I am there, I am building you piece by piece, like the armor of Christ, back from a mediaeval memory. Pale One, where have you gone? You've cut me to the quick; you are the only one who could pull me from the blurred crevice. Did you know I eased my mouth with wine and cigarettes for you? Come back to me, lover. I will love you whatever your

Since I don't believe in ghosts I was surprised to see you sitting on my bed, close to the window. After discovering that you wouldn't raid the fridge or increase the electric bill I decided that I could let you stay. You became persistent soon enough. You would wait standing in the bathtub while I sat on the toilet and pretended I didn't need to combat throes of shyness before finishing my business. I didn't mind. Everything deserves a smallish sort of privilege now and th

1. Ah, Alfredo— I saw you at the counter between the interminable seasons of hungriness, while just outside the storm had begun to putter, and I stood to hail you, but said nothing (or perhaps I dropped my coffee, and was muttering to that) and you turned and you weren't you after all. Wouldn't it have been embarrassing if I had hailed the person-not-you? But if I did, perhaps the person would have become you. If I could have said the four secret words that woul

In seat sixty-two, the most beautiful man checks his email using fingers more than beautiful, and on a laptop that can, with that neat haircut, freeze me with desire if he is not careful of his conversation with Miss Idaho to his right. By the time his dating history is touched upon I am hazy with thoughts of moist tight couplings, of subsequently checking my hair and conversations, of telling a disinterested passenger that I had a fair number of lovers, and other thoughts

The light comes in like this comes in lightly, in this exact way but lower, maybe to the left. Light coming in like this is light-coming-in-like-this is the way it came in in the memory, lightly. The lamp here is the-lamp-here, and there is the ceiling-up-there, significant because it was there and you looked at it, that spot in particular, for a long time. Like pictures at an exhibition set up in the Louvre, over there is longing and that is what-came-last, th

Alfredo--nightly, I have been troubled by a vision Of ash and brown earth Pillared into the distant shape of a chimney, A pale finger from the cold dirt. Tell me, Alfredo, Why does the dream haunt me nightly, And why, when the gulls come in Over my imagining's forlorn shapes, Do they wheel in silence, as if black crows Over the ancestral bodies of the dead? Tell me, Alfredo, why you are in the dream, A pale shape beside me, together Watching an old and toothless woman mutte

Infernal muttering follows me on linoleum streets-- I hear them, and I recall words of my mother, the fish: wild-eyed fury with fins. Such sounds--screech, craw, and song-- tend to bark like locusts, and my trees are stripped, poor things, slender in the wind. I refuse to be content or satisfied, silent or appeased, until the obelisk is crushed on the sandy white crest, and proud lady liberty of green, fantastic flames at last regains her hairy chest. Because m

Mother of countries and mother of men— You are witness to multitudes Beyond any other. Mother China— Ages have tramped across your face, But like the Buddha's face, still you are beautiful. On this side of the ocean, I reside in a lighthouse of bare rock, seeking The source of my spirit. Longing tinges The shore behind salt spray and mist, The far shore to which my gaze is turned. Yet this white-hearted seed Has chosen a strange coast with pools Of night's cobalt. From