Sunday, December 30, 2012

I looked up the definition of non-reactive pan when I was burning bacon in a pan on the stove. As it turns out, the pan was reactive. Non-reactive pans include ceramic, plastic, and glass. Years later, I found an advertisement for a shouting vase. You press the your lips to the lips of the vase and you shout and it disperses your anger. The vase in the advertisement was ceramic. You press your lips to the non-reactive surface and scream. Does nothing happen? 

I found a pan made of aluminum and I fell asleep in it.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012


I looked at your picture really carefully and concluded that there was no way that you are old enough to remember milk being delivered by milkmen on cool autumn mornings just as the sun is beginning to rise. Unless you are from Mars, where humans age very slowly, and Mars has milkmen. And the autumn mornings on Mars are cooler than everyone says they are. And you have need of nourishment on Mars. And Mars cows are like regular ones. And there is autumn and red leaves and gold. And you look into the sun. Naturally, it is still the same sun.


I prefer the pony tail to a pig tail when it comes to a doll that I buy for good luck or to stop the war or for my daughter as thought I have one. But let’s be true,
the real thing I buy like one might lettuce is Mike Hazard: he is a double agent, he is jointed and molded and blue, and he possesses exploding luggage

as should we all. You are probably wondering if he is an angel - why are you wondering that? Lemon chiffon is not what of he is made, but still I dream that someday I will touch his stiletto

necktie, hold in my arms his communication receiver-in hat (I want to know the news like most men want to know the sports) - he is, oh wouldn’t it be nice to be - a man of interchangeable weapons

I mean faces - you know, false disguises - enjoy if you will, he is prone to say - my bazooka launcher!

but look carefully: his words were spoken in 1965! If you did in fact enjoy his launcher, you have

long ago forgotten: the smoke is no more than a cockroach in the hope chest. Open up your heart and see if the communication receiver is still working - I doubt it. thank god for the trench coat

with secret pockets! with the assistance of nothing you recall, you have walked on, turned around, smiled, survived, forgotten. no wonder you didn’t cry when your luggage exploded.

Friday, December 21, 2012

I sent a drawing of Don Quixote to a friend. I had loved the drawing for a long time and it was quite large, and you could see every beautiful hatch mark that covered the knight’s hand like silk. He also had one perfect tear on his face, but that wasn’t as beautiful. It had no hatch mark, it had no design, no nature - just a simple, pure, pleasant oval shape. I wrote a little caption on the drawing and it read: “I like his hand, but not his tear.” I liked the sound of that, and even considered sending the caption without the drawing. What hand? What tear? she would ask. But I didn’t do that. I sent the drawing without the caption instead, and hoped she would decide to say something to it. She did: but it was more about where Don Quixote found himself crying: was it a stall? was it a jail? was the hay damp and warm? these are the sorts of questions my friend would ask. But why pretend? She’s not my friend at all. I am in love with her. Am I just a hand made of silk, drawing a tear that is less interesting than itself, uncertain of what to do with a pen for you? With a pen, you can do nothing sometimes, but draw friends.
I have certain habits. I know this because when I buy my Cracklin’ Bran cereal, I always put it on top of the chocolate cake recipe book which is on top of the Joy of Cooking cookbook which is on top of the refrigerator. When I replaced my box of Cracklin' Bran today, another box fell down. It was a box of Cracklin’ Bran cereal. I knocked down an old box of Cracklin' Bran cereal with a new box of Cracklin’ Bran cereal. It was a nice day. I felt safe.

Thursday, December 20, 2012


I never liked David Hockney’s paintings very much but I always admired that he wore very colorful clothes and his glasses were always big and round and his hair was always yellow. Some painters walk away from paintings but some people like David Hockney walk away and say I still believe in colors, I will always believe in them you see, I believe in them right now. 


Now that he is older, David Hockney has grey hair and wears grey suits but sometimes his shirts look like little swimming pools or pink flowers so I think that he is basically understanding something about grey and about colors you might say that he is evolving but I think he is staying the same. Normally you would say Oh that’s no good one must change. But I think that’s just what people say. I prefer to say something like Don’t get me wrong you see I am happy. I am still David and I still love.

Thanks, Emily

Brian Wilson sits around on the park bench for hours in Hawthorne, California wearing a tee shirt that reads ASK ME ABOUT THE HAMBURGER STAND NOW.  Even though there are a number of people walking up and down the sidewalk, no one stops to ask Brian Wilson about the hamburger stand now. This is a different world than the one Brian Wilson once knew. In the world Brian Wilson knew, people loved to ask him about the hamburger stand now. In this world, people drive very slowly and ask questions less often and more often they are about God and the ocean and the end of things. In this world, Brian Wilson is sad, not happy, and his tee shirt fits him very snuggly, like the jerseys you see on bicycle riders who know that someday they will win important races in countries that sound familiar, but you might not really know.


I love to check my bank balance on the computer. When I was little, you couldn’t do that. You had to go to a bank and ask the teller How much money is in my bank account? But with computers, you can check your bank balance every few seconds. It stays the same and stays the same and stays the same and then suddenly it changes but you never know when that will be. When I was a little boy, I used to feel the same way as I do now checking my bank balance when I would stare at goldfish in little fish bowls on tables in banks. One day I remember the teller yelling at me as I ran out: “Ninety-two dollars and twenty four cents!” and I remember that I yelled “Thank You!” but the bank teller didn’t hear me at all. I kept going and going and going and here I am. Now I have that funny feeling that people feel sometimes of a goldfish all gold and slippery in your hands that are wrinkly, I am really serious, I love being here where I am.

Thursday, December 06, 2012


I tried running the other day and it didn’t feel like it did when I used to run when I was ten or twelve. The last time I ran I was eighteen. I had this idea that I would stay healthy by running everywhere. I forgot that idea when I was about nineteen. I might have remembered if anyone had asked me: “Why did you stop running everywhere?” But nobody did. I like to think nobody did because I was running so fast that no one could see me. I ran really fast! Now when I start to run, everyone can see me and everyone asks: “Why are you running?” Or worse yet: “What are you running from?” When they do, I always point to whatever is behind me and hope that they understand. Everyone sees something different, and that is what I am counting on. But if I start running again, I hope that I will run so fast that I will remember why I stopped, or why I started, which is something that I don’t want to remember, but it might be good to know. I just hope that whatever it is, it doesn't stop me from running.


Is as futile as telling
two old ladies not to laugh
when they want to

Monday, December 03, 2012


We agreed on one thing:
this Dad didn’t like his son.

And he acted like a nice guy.
But he wasn’t a nice guy.

So we agreed on three things.
And he died long after his son.
In some boring way. 

His son died in a flaming airplane.
And on four things we agreed.

We agreed that he won.

I decided to write one story
about each line that Gustave Doré 
ever drew.

I have to be as patient as Gustave Doré 
I have to be more patient than G...

I don’t have time to say his name now
or tell you anything more about  ...

It’s time to begin my life
of stories 


What are you waiting...

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