Friday, March 28, 2014


I said CHATEAUNEUF DE PAPE all the way
to the liquor store but they didn’t have any.
Because they were a liquor store. 
The cashier suggested I try 
a wine store.
Or France.

In France, I say, he said

Have you noticed that all the popes lately,
are bald? You’re darn tootin’ I said.
But they also have better names than in 
the days of people like Septimus, who
was a cardinal named Pinelli. There was
also a Sixtus somewhere–and a Fagnanus.

Outside the liquor store the fans 
were “cooling the oscillators.”

This is a coded message for 
people who can’t decide between
sine waves and saw tooth waves.
And wavy hair.

I like to eat breakfast.

I was calling Bonnie & Clyde
“good eggs” as I sat down to eggs.
But that means something different 
in French, where I buy my Chateauneuf,
look for my popes, stare at things until 
they are bloody. At breakfast. I do like it.

Huevos Rancheros are what you might call
good eggs. They actually mean “The egg
of the lonely cowboy” in Spanish. 
But how can anyone be lonely in Spanish?
It isn’t a Spanish word. They can only be
round, like a huevo. Which is only almost 
round. How round, you ask? Jesus, It’s an egg, 
goddam it.

“Good Egg” in French means
a bald person who leads an unhappy life
without proper socks or cleansing materials
and never says “Thank You.” He may or
may not love Jesus, but you can be damn
sure that Jesus loves him. 

I met three of those people, good eggs,
all. One played the vibraphone. He played 
it so sweet, I started ovulating like a woman.
It must have cost 200 euros that vibraphone.
I was in the hospital.

I like to translate anything into euros.

Yesterday I translated pesos into euros.

And I bought a toy oboe with euros.

The day before I translated a irish wolfhound
into euros.

And I ate breakfast in euros.

Enough breakfast.

A curio.

Breakfast in Europe:

Tomorrow I am going sailing in a boat
made by the tiniest Romanians you have
ever seen after a hearty breakfast.

When I am in want of a good term, I use
“Romanians” - it’s a familiar and yet
unfamiliar term to most people who live
in North Carolina as I do. 

Once I visit Romania, specifically, Transylvania, 
I will find a new place to mention when I am 
in want of a good term now that I know far too
 much about Romania, including: they have cows there.

If I ever own a cow, I will name it
“The Steadfast Brothel of Romania”
or: Roman Polanski for short. HA!
What would I do with a cow?
In Romania?

I could sleep under a cow in Romania. 
I saw a baby, just a little thing, just a stupid
little thing,

sleep under a Great Dane. It’s pretty 
much the same thing. Sleeping under a beautiful
thing and possibly dying. But that baby lived!

I guess. It’s funny–that is one baby that is not going
to remember the Great Dane it slept under. Unless
the Great Dane writes a story about it. Yesterday

I took a picture of a Great Dane holding a pen
and looking thoughtfully into the distance. 
I made him out of clay.

Well, chewing gum.

“My Most Unforgettable Character” – this should
always be your Father. Not a dog. 

HA! I almost wrote “The Pope” - I really just meant,
Pop. Like the weasel. When people die, they become
brazenly different, but what would I know?

I would know unforgettable characters. There’s Pablo
Casals, Adolf Hitler, Gandhi, Lex Luger (Pro Wrestler)
and Janie Matzo Ball (Fictional) with that face. 
My she had a face. But so does everybody. 
The face of make believe.
And frankly, everybody is unforgettable.
I will never forget you. For example.

Don’t ask me why. I told you I am going sailing today.

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