Saint Nesanet, Patron of Gratitude Every day, several times a day, I look upon the small porcelain figurine: me, sitting, leaning forward, a teensy book spread open on the altar…

By the time I’m done sliding through loose dirt, detritus, and gravel (like the shale mountain scree in “Dharma Bums”), I’ve rappelled from boulder to branch of shifting cliffside, my…

Seeking distraction, I decide to tell the Buckaroo all I know about distraction, which amounts mostly to the mildly annoying sounds of civilization — aircraft, automobiles, and arboreal buzzers and…

There have been times in my life when I was convinced the act of sleeping was an unnecessary habit promulgated by atavistic traditions as normal and necessary when in actual…

“Prostitution,” the tall man states with serene confidence, “is the public promulgation of private parts for pecuniary purposes. Do we call it renting? Or selling? Letting? Or getting? And so…

Hanging out bareheaded, baldheaded in this sultry summer sun, gentle sea breezes tickling my ears, I think maybe there really is something to this fresh start idea and that just…

My ironwood tree is a ghost. My habit of calling it MY tree has made it the ghost of an idea I had nearly twenty years ago when I planted…

When I was a kid and ate candy bars, my favorite was Mountain Bar. Like a miniature mountain with a heavy coating of peanut-laced milk chocolate, its nougat interior sweetly…

“My dad’s better’n your dad.” “My dad’s stronger.” “My dad can pick up a bag of cement.” “My dad can pick up a bag of cement with one hand.” “Can…

Wafting, crooning Palolo trades Surge naked and serene across paired innocents. Pele’s na pepa li’li, Tactile as touch. Cupid’s vanilla swoon, Tacit as hush.