Brian Doyle

He was, you know. Dried out and salted down By men who had carried his stuff all over their Country, for reasons they thought inordinately Silly, chasing after the birthplace of a big river. But when David died, they determined to carry Him all the way across several countries, a trip That took . . . . Continue Reading »

Probably an olive or acacia, as far as scholars can determine. Of course there are scholars who have poked into the matter. The Roman Empire sensibly used the most accessible wood. Me personally I would bet on the acacia which grows bigger And broader and quicker than olive. You wonder if someone . . . . Continue Reading »

As usual one story will have to serve for one million stories. That is the way of stories. You might think that a lone story Cannot possibly do that, and you would be right and wrong. So here is Ena Zizi. She is seventy years old. The house fell Down on her when an earthquake hammered . . . . Continue Reading »

Elk calf, first five minutes on four legs, the shimmy and wobble of her. The undeniable inarguable adamant lurid smell of a smashed pumpkin. Two basketball players helping up a fallen teammate, the braided grips. The infant Vaux’s swift that rocketed out of the fireplace one evening. The way . . . . Continue Reading »

I am soaking in Revelation, in the King James, just before dawn, The dog snoring in his chair, everyone in the house sick and abed. Perhaps this is a dangerous idea, reading Revelation before sunrise. Perhaps I should absorb Revelation with a seat belt and a whiskey. But there are cracks in the . . . . Continue Reading »

Quid hoc ad aeternitatem, as old Saint Bernard of Clairvaux Used to mumble when faced with the usual parade of travail, What does it matter in the light of eternity? And yet, and yet, With total respect for eternity, don’t you love your problems, The smallness of them, the salt and roar of . . . . Continue Reading »

You know how sometimes there’s a moment when everyone In the moment is startled by what happened without warning? This morning I remember an evening when this happened, at The Lutheran minister’s enormous dark echoing old mansion Just across the street from the Catholic church and the . . . . Continue Reading »

One time a zillion years ago I played on a basketball team On which eight players had ponytails and our burly center Had a beard reminiscent of old Walt Whitman or Melville. We looked like the chorus at a Hassidic hipster convention. It was funny enough that we all had hair flying in the wind When . . . . Continue Reading »

Michael LeBeau has wet his pants. He is Jupiter, the fifth planet, with a mass 318 times that of the earth. He is soaked. Even his socks are wet. He is crying tears of great magnitude. They are falling on the surface Of his plaster planet like meteorites. Michael’s father, With a mass five . . . . Continue Reading »