Posts on Paul Merchant

Imbecile

Sat, 09 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The 98. Oldsmobile. 1970, to be exact, was the greatest set of wheels ever to grace the earth. The last 365 horse power V-8 equipped with a smooth-shifting Turbo Hydra-Matic 400 transmission. It was big. Danla said it rode like a boat. Ry thought hovercraft. He seldom if ever felt a pothole. The leather front seat was wide enough for four kids, but he only had the two. Only ever would.

An Unexpected Guest

Fri, 08 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

in the margin between
awake and asleep
autumn leaves, horizontal
in the air above my bed
an odor of wet dirt

asleep or awake
spirits waltz embraced
to your kind tenor
an elbow against my rib

between awake and asleep
blanketed limbs, levitate
above outstretched hands
my child eyes blink

in the margin
awake or asleep

Toilet Paper Manifesto 09

Wed, 18 Aug 2021 00:00:00 +0000

In December of 2008, on the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, intellectuals and dissidents in China released Charter 08. A political manifesto, Charter 08 calls for freedom of speech, thought, conscience, and religion. It was written in the hopes of reducing torture and other human suffering.

There exists another type of manifesto: artist manifestos. These statements of dogma define artistic movements. Having a date in the title is often important. In early 2009, for a fiction reading in downtown Spokane, Washington, I wrote Toilet Paper Manifesto 09. My hope was to gather signatures, start a movement. After the reading, one beautiful stranger came up to me and scribbled an unintelligible name on the bottom of the original manuscript.

Dream Catchers

Sat, 25 May 2019 00:00:00 +0000

The dream catchers hanging above your bed;
the dust of umbilical cords shrouded
in deerskin pouches at the bottom
of your sock drawer; and placentas
planted under aspens in the garden
are not enough to save your suyàpi¹ life.

One cul-de-sac morning, surrounded
by homes of urologists and investment bankers,
the black dog with the grizzly head
will pounce.

A Salish word for “white person”. ↩︎

Nunavut

Sat, 18 May 2019 00:00:00 +0000

In the heart of Nunavut (not
to be confused with Nunavik)
west of Iqaluit and to the east

there is nothing but snow.

No one speaks French or Inuktitut
when the Nunavummiut watch
soap operas in Arviat
but in the heart of Nunavut
you can be black or Inuit or

(white in nothing but snow)

above hungry Paallirmiut bones.

Luís Cuadrado, Cinematographer

Wed, 23 Jan 2019 00:00:00 +0000

Do they know
I am going blind,
that I will not live

without sky, amber sun,
or a crucifix flickering
above a beeswax candle?

The lens of this camera,
my Frankenstein eye,
holds you, young Ana,

los ojos oscuros,
pulls focus, opens aperture,
narrows the depth

of vision and frames
these child eyes forever.
Do you, young Isabel,

Upside Down

Tue, 22 Jan 2019 00:00:00 +0000

are upside down?
on windows
in raindrops
the trees

Have you noticed

Dear Mary

Sat, 12 Jan 2019 00:00:00 +0000

I am writing this letter by the dim glow of my old Boy Scout flashlight. I hope you can read my handwriting. It is midnight. A train has just rushed past me. The railroad track, still warm, hums when I press my ear against it. The cold, damp air weaves into my jean jacket. And I am eating Western Family strawberry yogurt and drinking Perrier. (Sorry about the yogurt smudge.)

Inspired by the Kokinshū

Wed, 02 Jan 2019 00:00:00 +0000

I.
    now that your dreams
can climb the trees
    that grow on mountain peaks
they will embrace    this wind
like waves of wisteria

II.
    after the night fell
ashamed    I buried my heart
    with leaves and grass and earth
but even the stones
became kindling to a flame

III.
    when the pain has gone
and my breath    is no longer
   shallow as this mountain stream
the pulse of my heart will be
still to forgive

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Tue, 01 Jan 2019 00:00:00 +0000

I’m happy that one of the church congregations I met with on Sunday sang Tennyson’s “Ring Out, Wild Bells.” Although the lines about the old year dying (“let him die”) sound morbid, they remind me of two New Year’s Eves that I spent in Colombia, South America, where people made straw effigies of the old year and sat them by their front doors.

These life-sized, scraggly straw men were often filled with unimaginably large firecrackers. At midnight the old years didn’t just die; they exploded in thunderous cracks and littered the streets with their shreds.