Sunday, September 29, 2013

A yellow book with red drawings.

Page 15: “a collage may show a house, 
partly covered by family members
and their possessions, or family scenes such
as watching T.V. or playing ball together.”

For a moment I wonder if my family 
ever played ball together. 

I imagine my brother and myself 
with a little whiffle ball.

And then my Mother and Father. 
And my cousins.
And my Grandfather and Grandmother. 

And my other Grandfather and Grandmother. 

And their parents. And their brothers and sisters.
And their grandparents. And their cousins.

Some of them might have wandered over from
next door. Soon the whole family is there. Way

in the back I see Charles II. And then Genghis Khan.
Almost out of sight I see Abraham and his son, Isaac
a handsome druggist I don’t know

Barely recognizable, at the very edge of the lawn, 
right next to the Ozies’ house, is Jesus Christ. Why

The whiffle ball is already the best thing that's happened to 
this family since we bought a hammock for the maple tree, 
which we never put up and the maple tree died years ago. 

The dog is buried beneath where the tree was.
This is the sort of yard that seems to work 
no matter what happens, or doesn’t. 

Somebody drops the ball, next to the maple tree.

 Somebody picks it up and puts it in their pocket. 

It’s somebody I barely love.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

There are eleven signs that your man is having an affair.

Most people say: there are ten signs that your man is having an affair.

But most people are having an affair. They find ten signs, and then they go away and have an affair. They leave the eleventh sign 

on the floor next to the umbrella stand. The eleventh sign is: the red umbrella is missing.

Thursday, September 26, 2013


A man on a cliff sees a bird. Of course he sees a bird!
He’s on a cliff. Birds love cliffs. Men are on cliffs. You
can’t say that men love cliffs, just because they are on 
them. But if you wait long enough, another man will
come and replace this man. And that man will be 
replaced by another. And that one, another. You could
almost conjecture that men don’t love cliffs at all, why,
with all their coming and going and the cliff always 
staying. The bird finds this amusing. He’s always 
the same bird. He loves that he’s always the same
bird. He loves the men and their coming and going. 
And he loves comedy. And cliffs, with skies so blue, 
so funny.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Two people told me I could make you into a play. Smart people, too. But I can’t. To write a play, first, I would have to be inspired. That part is easy. I would take out a picture of you. I would put it on the desk. There’s one in particular I like. Your hair is almost red, and your mouth is opened and smiling, almost a smile of a wink, and your eyes look tired and beautiful. Your eyebrows are raised slightly, your tongue is even on the palette, and your little canine is crooked, too. Your nose is a big perfect triangle, and graced by the single lines that run down to your mouth. Your earrings are silver and they dangle long to the base of your shoulders which are strong and white. The weight of the earrings pull your ear lobes gently and give them a slight accent. Did I mention your perfect neck? There is no way to tell from the photograph (it is slightly overexposed) that your neck is perfect and the part of you that is so soft that you need to touch it, absolutely must touch it. If you know that in advance, it is easy, but you have to have something more than the photo. That’s the problem. It’s impossible for this photo to see this, or to say how beautifully you kissed.

I can’t write a play about you. The inspiration is easy. But I don’t want a play about you. I want to play with you. But you fell down and broke. And when you broke, it was impossible to play. They say you can’t play with broke, and you can’t. It’s impossible to even say. You can’t write this play. This play has nothing to say. This play must go away. There will be none of this play. Come back, please. Please, come back. Let’s play.


If you spell “I love you” in French in America, Spell-check alway tells you that you’ve made a big mistake in English. In France, Spell-check tells you there’s something wrong with “I love you” in English, in French. People in France and America often say that you mustn’t say “I love you” until you are absolutely certain, because it can cause confusion and regret. Saying it too late, they say, can also cause a multitude of problems. Somewhere between France and America, there must be a place and a time where “I love you” is right and you can say it right away or even too late if you choose to. It must be very special place. Some people claim it was discovered by cartographers of love years ago and at first it had no name. Today it is called “The Atlantic Ocean.”

Tuesday, September 24, 2013


Everyone in the office says: "Today's a good day to play golf."

The office is empty. Sometimes I think about the movie HIGH NOON when I am in the office.

Out at the golf course, even the golf course is saying "Today's a good day to play golf."

If I could change the world, I would turn salespeople into tiny little aye ayes.

They're really a thing. Look them up in a book about animals.

Sunday, September 22, 2013


If you make a recipe that contains orange, ginger, tamari, teriyaki, sesame oil, brown sugar and balsamic vinegar, which flavor will you taste above all others?


So he said, “If you don’t stop smoking cigars, you are going to have to go to the dentist.” And I said, “Well, what of it?”

Wednesday, September 18, 2013


Well, composer. Stravinsky loved Scrabble. Someone said: 
how many points is Stravinsky worth? and I thought 
that this was perhaps a question that Stravinsky asked when 
he was playing Scrabble, but it was not. It could be 
the end of a beautiful movie about Stravinsky, 

but I imagine that anyone who loved Stravinsky would prefer 
to end the movie in a way that is more musical. Some people 
say poetry is music, and some people might say that Stravinsky asking 
about the worth of Stravinsky is poetry, still others might say 
“It really depends on the answer.” I don’t think so. I think it depends 

on what the question is - not what the words are, but what it is. What does 
this question remind you of? Since this is all about Stravinsky, I think it 
would be better to ask the question, and not answer it. And then think for a moment 
or two. Finish the movie with poetry which is a question a nice question

One that reminds you of flowers, not Stravinsky 
but still
that’s exactly who 
this question is
I imagined a bird on the roof yesterday and he sang.
Today there was a bird on the roof and he sang
nothing. Tomorrow I will put on my bird suit and
when I sing on the roof, someone who I imagine 
far below will not hear me. He will be wearing
my suit. He will look at me seriously. 
I will call him Feathers.
What an awful day. What, with three hundred boxers
all being knocked out in the ring all on the same day
one after another on the television set in a program
called BRUTAL KNOCKOUTS that I watched today
because I just knew that I had to stop thinking about
infinity and what better way to do that than to think
about finity.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Number of times I had the same thought today: 1000.
If someone gives me a choice of things to do,
I always choose the second one, no matter how
outrageous it might be. If something terrible
happens as a consequence, there is only one 
option of what to do. It’s terrible! I hate when 
there isn’t a choice! Give me a choice! But there 
is no choice! There is only one option! 

So I choose to think about that for a while.
I look at it very carefully. And I see the option 
settle down inside a little paper boat and float 
across the raging sea which is really no more 
than a kitchen sink filled with the foamy
suds of old options and excellent choices.
My only choice is to frown or smile and
so I choose two.


The black one.
The black one with the holes in it.

The white one.
The white one without the holes in it.

The white one that wishes it was black.
But doesn’t wish it had holes in it.

The black one that wishes it didn’t have holes
in it, but would like to remain black and that’s that.

The two unhappy suits. The suits to wear. 

The God of Suits, who looks like the God 
by Michelangelo except he is wearing a suit,
tells all his children:

“You must take the crunchy with the smooth” 

Crunchy things have no holes in them, neither 
do smooth things. But one is better than the other. 
Try them both and you will see. You will never agree, 
God says: peanut butter.

Friday, September 13, 2013


He sat down on a chair and took out his violin.
He played for over an hour.
The tape machines were whirring.
The room was humming.
And then he stopped.
He placed the tapes in a box.
A hundred years later, the box is discovered.
And it isn’t opened.
Is he inside and alive with his violin, or is he not.
Well, only if he jumped in the box years ago.
And was a magnificent turtle, the color of foam.
Ready to play the violin, which he had practiced quite.
If you opened it up, what would it be.
Waiting to be discovered, which would be unusual.
For turtles who hide their bodies to perfect the violins.

Tuesday, September 03, 2013

Monday, September 02, 2013

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