Monday, October 26, 2015


I realized that I loved her when I dropped to my knees and kissed her belly button. She might have been in the kitchen, she might have been addressing an assembly at the UN, she might have been in heaven, I don’t remember. All I remember for certain is how elegantly she was dressed when she was naked.

A STORY WITHOUT A HERO


I used to crack the shell of an M & M with my thumb and then peel away all the broken parts one by one. I don’t remember if I ate the shell but I do remember eating the chocolate within the shell.

YOU ARE MANY ATOMS


The act of tilling the soil excites atoms into producing fruit that we can grow and later eat. 

Tilling, which is simply beating the ground with steel, excites atoms tremendously. 

But it does not excite all atoms. 

Some are excited by the activity of the steel, happy to be set forth into action.

Some atoms are happy to remain still, snoozing lazily in the warm sunshine. 

Atoms are designed to be what they are, not what they aren’t. 

With this, there is balance. And all atoms are happy doing what they do. Seriously.


There is nothing better than when she turns around to put her blouse back on in the morning. She wouldn’t do that if I wasn’t here. So pretend that I am not here. But please be careful that I don’t disappear until you do.


Saturday, October 24, 2015

GOODNIGHT, SWEET PRINCE


I also say Hush Little Doggie with great frequency hoping that in my travels one day I will come upon a very loud little Doggie and my request will suddenly appear germane.


Sunday, October 18, 2015

INK


INK

I bought the ink from Japan because the bottle was so beautiful. 

I bought the ink from Japan because of my feelings about ink.

I have many feelings about ink.

I love ink.
I like ink.
I like paper on ink.
Or should I say: ink on paper.
The many colors of ink I love.

But if there were only one color, I would love it.
And I would miss all the others.
But I wouldn’t because how would I know.

Ink is something that can do something but who knows what.
If you draw a person made of ink, they can smear.
But here you have done something.
You have made something out of something that can become something.

Ink must stand for something, but I know not what.
Until that day, I will stand next to a bottle of ink.
I will say: what

Ink: what?
Tell me, 
sweetheart.
Tell me.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015


Dear X,

I was told that he was an extraordinary prolific songwriter and that he had written 500 songs. Each song was about 3 minutes long and so they were collectively about 1500 minutes, or 25 hours. Last week I had so much work to do that I put a copy of his songs in my stereo and listened to them continuously. By Thursday, I had worked 25 hours.

I became upset and didn’t know what to do next.

Love,
Ricky











Dear X,

I have misgivings about a photograph I took of a window display. It was striking: a series of golden skulls with sport sunglasses, and below a copy of Dante, a crawling spider and a pair of reading glasses. Reflected in the window was a passing truck, a series of oak trees, and a cream and brick school building. I didn’t create the display and I wasn’t responsible for the view reflected in the window. What was I? I was the only thing you couldn’t see in the photograph. 

Love,

Ricky

Thursday, October 08, 2015

THE FIRST MAN ON EARTH


The first man on earth must have been a blond. Working outside all day long will do that to your hair. And there was no inside then. My grandmother, who worked on a farm, was also blonde until the day she died. And until that day, she worked hard with the cattle and the horses and had sinewy muscles of steel. At night she would drink barley wine and dye her hair grey. She wasn’t my real grandmother. Yet her hair was as beautiful as her muscles and my lies.

Sunday, October 04, 2015


Dear X,

Today I became familiar with the Chinese Banjo. Familiar isn’t really the right word – I read the words in a manual: Chinese Banjo. I don’t want to explore this too much, because it might be a misprint, or a made-up term, or Chinese banjos might be extinct. They might no longer exist in China or be made in China. They might have one string. They might sound terrible in a Chinese Bluegrass band in China. There may be no Chinese Bluegrass bands in China. I might be dreaming. You might not be reading this. You might be writing this to me and I can’t quite make out the words. 

These are all the things that I don’t want to discover, or think about, or know. Here’s all I want to think about and know: Chinese Banjo.

Love,

Ricky

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