A dad worries.

(from Harvard Review, #28)

Sometimes we call things short stories because that makes more sense than calling them poems. This one, this three-page stream-of-consciousness rumination on the fragility of life and inevitability of harm, certainly exists within the vast grey expanse between lyric and prose. But there’s no denying its close proximity to the latter shore. It’s got characters and something like a plot and whole sentences and, yeah. I read a short story today, no question. But it feels different, coming across this kind of repetitive, experimental, structureless work. Refreshing but also scary. Thankfully, we the readers are in good hands, watched and cared for by a sane scientist. This is important. I don’t like being screwed with unless there’s some reason behind it. I don’t need some freshman pothead trying to blow my mind with the presumptuously freaky. Life’s too short.

The Mountain Goats, “Jam-eater’s Blues”