He kicked off his sandals, walked
barefoot into the kitchen.
“I want to believe you. Will you let me?”
The moon went blue, strange and grey.


I don’t feel safe in this world.
Like their lyric poet,
I write – sharp tool, voice hollow in a creek:
“Was it a good death for the animal?”


Strictly entre nous, both chairs collapse,
one teak and mulberry find.
Between you and me, you and I –
where’s the ochre corridor? Take us?

Several weeks ago, while at my parents’ house, my mother started talking about her escape from the concentration camp in the former Yugoslavia, post World War II. Most of the stories my mother shared about the camp I’d heard before, many times before, and so it took me a minute before I realized what she’d said. This story was new.

I have far too many ideas in my head.

All fighting to get out, competing for my attention.

This is not a good thing. What I want is clarity, focus; mental definition and stability in a time of personal and global chaos.

You can have too many thoughts. It’s a distraction. I want to write.

I want to write short novels.


I want to be churning out one, two a month.

I want to be finishing a story every fortnight.

I think I need to, to purge the cranial overload.

Trepanning is what the ancient Greeks used, to purge the brain.

It was a physical thing, not a metaphorical mental thing.

Brain damage isn’t caused by the blow; it’s caused by the build up of fluid; the blood, the bile, the miscellaneous brain juice.