Believing in Ars Poetica

There's a breeze coming from the sea of my childhood. There is heat at mid-day and mail arrives. And I have chance meetings with the people I should know better. A live story is sung in my head. I am not certain about much else. Thinking of Tolstoi who said poetry should infect the reader, silly I think, a metaphor from the age when germs were new–but yes, there's something going around.

Essay: Disability Balloon Animals

I was in New York's Central Park and a very green man was twisting equally green balloons into animals. It was St. Patrick's Day and hundreds of green clad adults and children were about.

I didn't buy a balloon animal. I didn't even linger. I was in a hurry to cross Fifth Avenue before they closed it off.

Something happened to me over the course of the day. I thought of the balloon man as a kind of Pythagoras, who understood early in the morning just how the day would progress. All day, jammed in the crowds were wheelchair users, people with canes, elderly people. And their forms were struggling to unfold.