Sunday, June 26, 2016

How sharp and unpleasant the telephone ring was on Paul Bowles’ telephone as it rang and rang! and so he cut the telephone cord with a wire cutter that you can pick up at any hardware store or even lumber store such as Fitch Lumber here in town although you cannot expect a sale price because now they are promoting tick and bedbug remedy since it is summer whereas a few months ago they had a sale on little chicken eggs for Easter.

Monday, June 20, 2016


So in the matter of a few short years
The Ritz modified its surroundings
until it was a mock apple pie.

I know you are thinking: 
“It’s a hotel” –
well, it’s really a pie that used to be
a hotel, and inside of it are no apples
but it is quite crunchy and
elegant in taste it is tasty

I want you to think about how
lucky you are to have lived
when you did –

Once, people
would simply eat pies
and not hotels.

You had both.

Everyone wore a hat.

Hello bottle of absinthe we hate you.
We drank a thimble full which we used
to make a sweater once I think in 1971.
It tasted like licorice and we thought
of all the things in the toy store licorice
was the one thing we never bought
well no appliqués and old ladies too
but I don’t think you buy old ladies
at the toy stores. For old ladies or
their purchase, you must go to the
old lady store. Sometimes you can
find them on a whale, But this is rare.
And no whale on earth will give up
their old lady. No, on. Earth.

Yummy licorice on top of my day.
Absinthe. No real whale.

Thursday, June 16, 2016


There was a fictitious man named Buttercup because there could be no real man named Buttercup although it is better perhaps to say there is no man named Buttercup but there should be a man named Buttercup because think about it: You walk up to someone and they say, “Hi, my name is Buttercup” and you can’t help but smile a little and already you like Buttercup because who doesn’t like Buttercup? You would have to be a monster not to like Buttercup. And then you would tear him into tiny little yellow bits and there would be no man named Buttercup.

I find it pleasurable to use words that I love regardless of the appropriateness of their definition and context. Why, only yesterday I wanted to say “cloyingly” while referencing a certain pop song and instead said “The Earl of Coventry.” In this case, the Earl became an adverb and he was happy to do it, and in doing so, beautifully described a rather cloying pop song. Now I am not certain he was truly happy to do it, but I feel as though by being so kind as to use words that I choose to use that I am granted the liberty of using them and their emotions as I see fit. At least with others. And others feel the same way, too, only about me.

Monday, June 13, 2016


Everybody reads JANE EYRE by Charlotte Brontë and I wanted to read something different by Charlotte Brontë so I read THE PROFESSOR which begins with a very loving letter written by a girl to a boy named William or should I say from William which I later discovered and it was all about their love for each other and naturally I assumed it is a girl writing the letter but I was wrong it was William. By the second chapter the letter is discovered to not have found its way to its lucky correspondent and so there is no more letter writing. Still, it made me about things. For example:

This boy that wrote this letter was a boy and not a girl.
John Kennedy was a boy and not a girl.
Fidel Castro is a boy, and not a girl.
Captain Kangaroo was a boy, then a man, then a kangaroo.
No he wasn’t a kangaroo!
Mr. Green Jeans wore jeans and was a boy.
The Professor could be a boy or a girl.
Professors are smart.
I enjoy salt water taffy upon occasion.

After that I thought:

Charlotte Bronté.
Charlotte Brontè.
Charlotte Brontê.
Charlotte Brontë.


Sunday, June 12, 2016



It has a gardenia on it.
The gardenia is in a can of tangerine juice.
It has six candles on it.
It has a little basket on it.
It has a jar of honey in the basket.
It has a ticket to Lincoln Center in the basket.
Beethoven is looking at the table.
GI Joe is looking at the table.
It has a woman cut in half on it.

Tuesday, June 07, 2016

I wrote an entire paragraph about my experience in the barber shop today. It was a very pleasant experience and I wanted to tell everyone I knew about it. Once I had written it, I erased it. Even though the experience in the barber shop was wonderful, and  writing about the barber shop was wonderful, what I wrote was not. It was not fair, I felt, to write about a wonderful experience poorly. And then something happened to my pencil. And so what I have left is this:

My barber’s name was Bradley. He cuts his wife’s hair. He loves his wife. He has brown hair. He has two children. And a mustache.

My pencil.

Swimming, my hand disconnects water from water.
I know the feeling of being broken in half.
It’s a good feeling.
You get to see yourself go away.
You, just like you.
Watch you.

As a human being, you are a map of the world.
Well, a map of my world.

I change the picture in my wallet frequently. Right now I have a picture of a cow in a tree. It is a beautiful Japanese cherry tree that blossoms in April, and bears fruit in July. This photograph was taken in October. The leaves of the tree are golden, and it was a beautiful day. I must mention that the cow in the tree is an ordinary cow, made of plastic. His coloring is black and white. He is about the size of a child’s fist. He is smiling, which cows can do but it is not always obvious. With this cow, it is more obvious than with most. The cow appears to be resting comfortably in the tree. Winter will soon be here, for the cow and the cherry tree. Of all the photographs I have had in my wallet, this one –

Friday, June 03, 2016

My mother was older when she had me, and she used to tell me that she was worried that even though she was certain that she had happy memories, she couldn’t remember them. And so when I was a very little boy, she bought me a small blue diary and instructed me to write down my happy memories every day, without fail, and I did. I started in the morning after I woke up until breakfast, and then after breakfast, and then during school at recess, and then after school, and then before dinner, and then after dinner, and then just before I said my prayers and then right before I went to bed. And every time I wrote about my happy memories I always wrote the same happy memory: “writing.”


The people you only knew in paintings are now walking around and eating sandwiches and dancing and laughing.
If we wrote love letters to everybody
everybody would have love letters
If everybody had mailboxes

if the mailboxes were easy to open
if the mail was delivered every day
if everyone could see
if everyone could read
if everyone liked to read

and if there weren’t little wasp nests
in the mailboxes

making buzzing sounds
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