Sunday, May 25, 2014

I have seen the weather misspelled
in a thousand ways but I have never
seen it spelled like this:


Which reminds me: I must invite
Guido over for a picnic if it doesn’t

Paulo Coelho said “Love is an untamed force.” 
Whether it was because I was tired, or because 
I love music, I read “Love is an untamed opera.”
Truly, though, everyone loves music; everyone 
is tired. However, not everyone loves opera. Love,
I feel, is the ability to say: I love opera. I imagine 
in a way you must feel untamed, or unable to be
tamed, to say such a thing. In a perfect world, 
you will discover someone who doesn’t like opera,
but forgives you anyway, for everything, and he, 
or she, will say to you: I never think about being 
tamed. I once did, but that was long ago, 
and then I met you. And I never thought about
meeting you again.

You know, my love, force is a word. Opera isn’t. 
That’s what it means to be loved. To love you.
I love opera.

Friday, May 23, 2014

... and nobody was crying until the faucet started dripping
and all the little clouds weren’t clouds until they fell asleep 
and drifted to the sky...

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Marguerite Duras said that writing comes like the wind, and that it is made of ink. If that were true, I would want to be an old and wrinkly person going out in the wind and making the most excellent designs with my face. The windier the day, the more wrinkly I am, the more excellent my face would be, and the more writing you would find about it, while all the while newspapers are blowing down the street and helping little hats dance away like notions and jiggers to new places under cars and over marquees and hot dog stands and brains.


Goodbye Glaciers. Goodbye World.
Toodle-loo, ladies and gentlemen -
cocktails and jazz, kisses and joy.

I kicked over the box filled with miniature lamb, wise men, donkeys and baby Jesus at the yard sale. I hate writing the word Jesus because it seems like an easy one to write for a quick joke (think ELVIS, BARBIE, ZSA ZSA) - but I want to tell you what happened yesterday along with what did not happen, and this is what happened.

When I kicked over the box I waited to hear You break it you buy it but instead I heard Don’t Worry It’s Just Jesus I asked How much? And I heard I could never sell Jesus. This is all just one big goddam Jesus joke, I cried and

I left in tears and came back with my checkbook only to discover she couldn’t sell Jesus, but she could give him away, which she most certainly did.  I spent an hour or two in the grass looking for baby lamb. Finding baby lamb in the grass would make everything better. I must find a lamb or two before it rains, because it is going to rain.

This is what happened, and then, what did not.

My brown fist would not be brown
if it were drawn on white paper.
And it would last forever if it 
were not drawn in graphite.
And it wouldn’t be a fist 
if it had a word balloon
that said just that and
if nearby there was no
eraser but there

Sunday, May 18, 2014

This refrigerator magnet says
inside the fridge you will find 
my memoirs–
chocolate mousse
a whipped dessert
a hair styling foam

Thursday, May 15, 2014

The dog barks when the package arrives.
It must be a good package because it is a happy bark.
It must be a package filled with dogs who are missing
dogs that bark.

Tuesday, May 06, 2014


There’s a book written in the 1600’s that catalogues all the known colors.  It has a very complicated name: Traité des couleurs servant à la peinture à l'eau: “Treaty of Colors Known To Paint The Water.” It was written by a man named Boogert, whom we know little about. 

His handwriting was exquisite. 

He was perhaps Dutch. Much of his book is in French. 

The book is 800 pages long.

There is a butterfly on the frontispiece. 

The colors are separated by family and numbered rather than named. 

Were the colors to be named, would we know the names ourselves? Think of all the objects in Holland and France that have been lost in the last four hundred years. Think of all the objects that have been gained. The colors remain the same. That is perhaps true. We could argue about that forever. And by then, the names would have changed. As might the colors. Again, about this, we could argue.

Across from the butterfly is a man, drawing a drawing of a painting.

Monday, May 05, 2014

I pause for a moment to watch
the grass grows as it slowly does
it has already reached the second line
where I once wrote simply and with a pen
the grass grows as it slowly does

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