Bill Stadick

(at the funeral mass of a friend’s mother) First of all, I am protestant. I protest everything: sanctuaries that echo, robes that billow, mothers who die. Especially mothers who die. Second, I am Scottish. That bagpiping of Amazing Grace in my left ear conjures in my soul a heath-buried . . . . Continue Reading »

The nun, you said, bad-marked your report card because you could not answer why why why God made her or you or them or me. All jowls and rules, that woman. As if the motives of God were true-false, multiple choice or kindergarten simple. ”So why did he? I knew you would ask and seem to . . . . Continue Reading »

In the diptych, I see two Messiahs: one just prior to his closing breath and another exactly one moment after. I do not see the breath itself (it being breath). Nevertheless, as my eyes stray from one to the other then back to the first, the result is that of a comical videotape of gridiron . . . . Continue Reading »