Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
People liked what they saw. They liked his shoes, too. He began making shoes for others. The frenzy grew. To date, Chiles has created more than 150 customized pairs of shoes. He says, “I’m just a kid in a garage who likes drawing on stuff.” Don’t listen to him. He has honed his craft like a ninja, and he can see into your soul.
Shoes are meant to be worn. Chiles Shoes are meant to be worn by you.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The moon was like a full cup tonight,
too heavy, and sank in the mist
soon after dark, leaving for light
faint stars and the silver leaves
of milkweed beside the road,
gleaming before my car.
Yet I like driving at night
in summer and in Vermont:
the brown road through the mist
of mountain-dark, among farms
so quiet, and the roadside willows
opening out where I saw
the cows. Always a shock
to remember them there, those
great breathings close in the dark.
I stopped, and took my flashlight
to the pasture fence. They turned
to me where they lay, sad
and beautiful faces in the dark,
and I counted them–forty
near and far in the pasture,
turning to me, sad and beautiful
like girls very long ago
who were innocent, and sad
because they were innocent,
and beautiful because they were
sad. I switched off my light.
But I did not want to go,
not yet, nor knew what to do
if I should stay, for how
in that great darkness could I explain
anything, anything at all.
I stood by the fence. And then
very gently it began to rain.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
He pressed a fingertip to her shoulder. She couldn't breathe. His eyes dazzled. She was mesmerized by his crooked smile. He put a finger on her elbow. Her eyelids fluttered. His skin was cold. She touched his hand. He wanted to bite her. His skin sparkled. She wanted to be bit. It didn't happen. Instead, they went to prom.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
you, my luff, my burrito, my sweet,sweet dessert, my lovely lovey-dovey one.
we’re little coals, red hot and smoldering—
we’re cooking something good, a bubbling stew
of habañero pepper, garlic, meand you.
Dear feet on dash
Dear strong-armed driver
Dear road to anywhere,
new like day