12/29/2010

Eulogy, by Brian Turner





It happens on a Monday, at 11:20 A.M.,

as tower guards eat sandwiches

and seagulls drift by on the Tigris River.

Prisoners tilt their heads to the west

though burlap sacks and duct tape blind them.

The sound reverberates down concertina coils

the way piano wire thrums when given slack.

And it happens like this, on a blue day of sun,

when Private Miller pulls the trigger

to take brass and fire into his mouth:

the sound lifts the birds up off the water,

a mongoose pauses under the orange trees,

and nothing can stop it now, no matter what

blur of motion surrounds him, no matter what voices

crackle over the radio in static confusion,

because if only for this moment the earth is stilled,

and Private Miller has found what low hush there is

down in the eucalyptus shade, there by the river.


PFC B. Miller

(1980-March 22, 2004)

12/17/2010

While harvesting the stuffing Moxie habitually tears out of her dog quilt for use in this diorama, a friend sent me a link to a slide show from the New Yorker. It featured the work of a tinkering designer who had of course already used this method in a Superman themed photograph. [shrug] It was cool!

www.insideabox.com

12/10/2010

"Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;

Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good."

- W.H. Auden

www.insideabox.com