The Voyage That Is Reading Moby Dick

Relax. You'll last longer. That was how I think I read Moby Dick the first time. I was nimble. Limber. I approached Moby-Dick like some men approach whores. They have paid for her. There is no one to judge. You can fail. You can laugh. You can walk away. Everything is permissible. In those permissions,... Continue Reading →

 Factotum – Why I Read Bukowski

Even my spontaneity is planned. That is why I read Bukowski. Google Maps ensures that I don't even get lost, sealing my last bastion of unpredictability.That is why I read Bukowski. Somewhere underneath all that filth and grit, I want to believe Bukowski's sadness exists untouched. Somewhere beyond all the boozing and whoring, I convince myself there... Continue Reading →

Moby Dick – Ahab’s Obsessions

When I first came to New York, and if I am not careful even now, I had a tendency to walk looking upward. At stoplights my eyes are drawn to the topmost floors of the tall buildings lining Manhattan where angry NYPD helicopters flit to and fro, like huge metal dragonflies startled from their rooftop sunning sessions. I follow their... Continue Reading →

Postoffice – Charles Bukowski

I knew a girl who read Bukowski I knew a girl who read Bukowski. I knew a girl who read. I knew a girl. I knew.  I. I did not know the girl who read Bukowski. A girl who smoked like a fish and drank like a chimney. All the words that litter papers and novelists that litter coffee shops are self conscious.... Continue Reading →

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Blessed with a Star on the Forehead

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