Ars Longa
As the warrior guided his horse back home, he pondered what the future might hold. The scuffle of a few moments ago was done, in the past, and not be to be dwelt on.
The stick, and the hilltop. The stick brings the stick-bearer back to the hill.
You sit on a steel bench in the dressing room, hands taped, gloves on, Vaseline smeared on your face like war paint.
In his dreams, Humberto overslept and was late. His alarm clock didn’t go off. The car wouldn’t start.
Upon reading that Muhammed Ali was banned from boxing for three years, I wondered what he did come August. This August. That August.
“Charyut means attention.” Master Lee stands at the head of the class, his back to the long wall of mirrors.
The monastery was a dead building, resuscitated only after a master entered. Traditional pagoda, red and orange cake of tri-tiered imperial eaves. Double doors, meant for giants.
You hear a sound downstairs and, as you round the corner of the hallway to find out what the cat has knocked over this time, a man steps through the dining room window.