Mystery: Toothpaste smear on lower right of t-shirt, always the same location.
I mean I know how it gets there but, even to save my life, I can’t figure
out how to prevent it
*
I love Frisch’s Homo Faber. Bob the Builder (can’t stop), whether for need
or out of boredom. Perhaps giving up on one dream or another, but never giving up
on the “drawing board,” whose surface area is infinite (or so it seems). Multiplying
words (can’t stop), as though inching toward some ultimate “reality” or “truth.”
You’ll need the ultimate word when you get there
*
After giving in to the junk mail from Classpals (I paid for 3 months) and getting
Laura (real or bot) to straighten out my old account (they had me in Reading
SH PA instead of Reading HS MI), I looked at all the “hellos” (from people
I never knew) and uploaded some pics from our trip to St Ives
As I was going to St Ives, I met a man with seven wives …
*
I took my nephew Armand to Taco Hell to celebrate something, I don’t know what.…
...continue reading
1.
Till the end (there is no end)
2.
Scores of flying scissors cutting the air
above the rooftops and cathedral
3.
She is so much younger
4.
They leave (hidden behind the column her friend
had been only an audio and purse). We stay
and take their place (watching, sipping
our beers, crunching our snacks)
5.
The burning fish is dying a slow death behind the cathedral.
A last gasp of orange and black has taken the scissors
and the fish. Only the cathedral remains, drinking
imperfectly (perfectly) from the absent
moon
– R L Swihart…
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The stars are so thick (in rivers and ways) they bend down to trouble your sleep.
Coyotes pick off the chickens one by one. Trees but not many: utility poles
but not many (and shorter than you know): instead of grass, rusting
random bits of Americana no larger than
a junkyard poodle
*
Listen carefully or not at all. The streets tell a history as thin as the pavement:
Saddle Sore Trail, Last Dollar Trail, Gunslinger Trail
Yes, the S-2, running somewhat north and south, reminds you that the stagecoach
went by – and the RV park (Stagecoach Trails) confirms it. Yes again, Ginny,
if you want to feel like Mark Twain saw the same desert views you’re
viewing. No harm, I suppose, but I’m pretty sure he took
the northern route
*
The morning I left for the coast the yellow eye of the sun quickly burned a hole
through the silver gelatin of fog.…
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We drove past abandoned homes and trailers that collectively
left the impression of a salvage yard
*
We stopped and parked in an empty lot near the house
with an old hearse (slowly dressing in a desert
patina) and a giant clam
*
At that point we followed the disjointed string
of “everyone else”
*
Over the dike and down to the beach
*
I took pics. I got the bones of a ship. I got a homeless mailbox.
I skipped the Lisa del Giocondo porch (face without a body,
face without a face) because my Mona Lisa refused to pose.
I zoomed in on the large swing in the water
and the misty mountains
*
When I got closer to the water I continued with my wading beauty:
swing & mountains, swing & shoreline, swing & black-necked
stilt, swing-seat & pendant fish
*
I took a break from the swing.…
...continue reading