Pop Art

Pop Art

In nine years I have been graced with three children and here is what I have learned about them. They are engines of incalculable joy and agonizing despair. They are comedy machines. Their language is their own and the order of their new halting words has never been heard before in the whole history of...

Planet Unflinching

It used to be an axiom that an object cannot occupy two positions at the same time, but now, of course, one may argue that in cyberspace it is possible to do just that. Perhaps someday it will also be possible to occupy the same position at two different times. At the dinner table, there...

Posing Nude

Posing nude isn’t anything like an Anais Nin story, with artists and models haunting the back streets of Paris, living scandalous, sex-frenzied lives. There is nothing titillating about the task.   In this makeshift studio, oversized can lights threaten to blind me if I forget to blink. Accumulated sketchbooks and charcoal pencils clutter the mantlepiece. My...

By a Song

Memory, like the organ, is an instrument capable of infusing the most secular music with spiritual sounds. — James McConkey When I was in the first grade, my favorite song was John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High.” I was a little confused when I heard it — figurative language still eluded me. How could a boy...

This is Just to Write: A Night Without Metaphor

for William Carlos Williams Rummaging through our freezer, prospects are slim: four Budget Gourmet dinners, two green chili burritos, a Jeno’s pizza, and a bottle of Stoli. Cubed leg of lamb, chicken breast, and a pound of ground round.  Not one single plum.  The closest thing we have is a four-pack of strawberry sorbet cups—so sweet, so...

On the Bowery

I’d watch the shadows flow across the ceiling for hours, slow, heavy shapes moving up and down the walls and around the room. Waves of heat thickened the steamy air. No one in the city could sleep. I’d sit by my window late into the night. No lights were on in my apartment, but outside street...

The Performers

A baby hand, grubby and dusty, popped from the left the moment I opened the lunch box. The train was pulling out of the Ludhiana railway station after a five-minute halt. The sun, a mildewed orange peel, was going down behind the dust and smoke of the industrial city. The train had been late, and...