taconic state highway

Bobby, you were six. Camping is the coolest, Mom, camping is the coolest--jumping around her as she walked, stoic and bleary, to the van. I love, love, love camping! And you haven't been this effusive in days, after that rocky start to kindergarten.

You sure as heck aren't getting in that van without a struggle. Look at the outdoors! You smell the air, of course, but the people, the musk of all the people around you--you are wild, wild, wild with the sight of the sky and the smell of the people around you. Around the bumper, Bobby. Run around once more. Steady yourself, little body slanting sideways with the force of your run, against the greasy bumper. Get in the car. Oh you can't even sit still, little fast-beating heart, believing at that moment you would still die happy.


A Long Island mom guzzled vodka and smoked pot in a minivan packed with young kids before speeding the wrong way down the Taconic Parkway, sparking the head-on collision that killed eight, authorities revealed yesterday.

sierra nevada

i met in the emerald river some panners of gold, culling the water for flecks which they feel in their bones. i washed myself in the river with eucalyptus... the men look for gold, they have for years, live in their cars, smoking like lunatic herbovoirs pouring juice in their beards. gold sivvers are like pan handlers without the pleading eye or rusted saxophone or sidewallk. say wiskey they say, meaning smile. this river is hidden by cliffs life or death or long needled pines. we scream at the rocks, deal with things on our minds, while the soap sleeps alone in its dish.