Archive for the '1' Category
When you come to a fork in the road,
the old joke goes, take it. Unless, as I found out
the hard way, it’s a jewel-encrusted fork
fallen from the lunch basket of a giant toad.
• • •
Pizza, like spaghetti, is a yellowish
place with meaty red circles on it and
greasy sauce intermingled with it much like
my friend Jeremy’s face in middle school
a yellowish face with red circles
Spoiler alert—Jeremy’s older now,
the CEO of Betterment Solutions LLC
which while it employs only two
employees both are ambient, future-
driven, multichannel and I would add
lithe and sort of cute
But to my point, or to yours,
food is basically a pale context
in which darker nuggets flourish, tease
us with their succulence until we fork or
finger them into our face vacancies
and then masticate like no one’s watching
When in fact Jeremy and his associate
are watching through a minicam
and scribbling notes with all the intensity
of several monkey behavior scientists
recently featured on NatGeo, by which
of course I mean lather, rinse, repeat
• • •
My goal is to make no progress
or move backward to discover
what I might have been thinking
before I started thinking
anything, and to be completely
dishonest it’s going exactly
as planned: What lurks
in the Jungian precognitive
slurry not only accurately predicts
what has come to mind since
but forms the pediment
of an entire way of life,
of baking casseroles, wearing
a peculiar cabbage-colored hat,
watching intently the hula-hoopist,
falling asleep on a perfectly
Sundayish afternoon where
the pine trees creak
in a muffled breeze and Cardinals
radio can be heard crackling
at the A.M. dial’s narrowest point.
I love it, to be honest,
love this plainspokenness
and the lack of direction
that inevitably attends it,
and I also have loved you
after a fashion, have read your
flat words, fixed them in mind
as one fixes an iPhone to a dash
and then watches it while
driving down to Sarasota
on a strangely rainless morning.
• • •
I’m either not as good at being
who I think I am, or I’m way better—
so much so that I almost no longer
recognize the person I once was
as being connected, via the present,
to the man I hope, one day, to be.
And if that’s the case, either
neither are you or so are you,
but even more so. It’s a matter
of degrees—and also of Degree
Dry Protection Antiperspirant
Deodorant, and maybe also of Attilio
Degrassi, Italian scholar of Latin
epigraphy. No, I threw that last
one in as an example of a false
positive. One mustn’t simply
assume one’s beta virgin, pimply
and spry, can step naturally into
the rainbows of tomorrowland!
One’s too familiar with sorrow, and
one doesn’t enjoy time, per se.
At least not what it does to May
or to its moons as it lapses,
however confidently, into false June.
What I’m saying, however clunkily,
is that I resent the way time redacts
its many months, however funkily,
giving rise to a lone apocalypse
of singular sun and million Satans
springing for—well, spray tans,
let’s be honest. They don’t call it
the Yellow Devil for nothing.
They don’t call it “Honey Darling”
for no reason at all. It’s because
it got that way at the mall.
• • •
Man, it was great.
• • •
My supervisor is a woman.
Her supervisor is a woman,
as is her supervisor’s supervisor.
Even the CEO of my company
is a woman.
My mom is a woman.
My sister is a woman
as is her only child, Hannah.
My dad is generous and strange
and loves my mom and Hannah
and my sister, makes his
place among them.
My aunts are all women.
My cousin Emily is a woman,
as are my triplet cousins:
Heidi, Laura, and Anna.
So is my cousin Collyn,
and all five of Aunt Esther’s
children are women.
was a woman.
Closer to home,
my spouse is a woman.
My daughters are women.
Even my town, situated as it is
in a small valley
through which a river flows,
is a woman.
Fire is a woman.
Waters are women. All
weather and natural disasters
are women. The only things
that are men are a Brontosaurus
and the Washington
I guess a policeman’s nightstick
is also a man, as is my dog,
my sweet German shepherd,
who lays his head
on the feet of a woman
As I think about it,
all that I love and that brings
me peace is a woman.
A man cannot bring
what a woman
• • •
It’s mating season in the Galápagos.
The booby has no real predators
in the Ecuadorean archipelago.
As a result, the blue-footed bird
lives a proud and public life
but needs, like hell, a wife
with whom to promenade
the volcanic sands. He dances
the more wildly to avoid rejection:
if his gay romp passes inspection
she goes with him. His feet may
be blue, and his strut odd,
but to her he is a small, winged god—
the only object of her affection.
Here is the male booby’s song:
“Woman, I know you understand
the little child inside the man.
Please remember my life is in your hands,
and, woman, hold me close to your heart.
However distant, don’t keep us apart;
after all, it is written in the stars.”
• • •
When the flowers are blooming
and the bloomers are flowing,
when the knickers are tight
and the tickers, at night,
are drunk and unwinding:
Then and only then will I come to you,
my love, amid smoke and ash
and wind whistling through
tree limbs, foliage-rich, within
which is perhaps perched a finch:
Then and then will I repeat
and rearrange you the way you once
reaped me, and parroted me,
and foiled, then oiled me—my gosh,
how it roils the memory.
How my flight must boil
your mammaries, come to think of it,
my singular ladybird. Stay sane!
Be safe! Maintain that waifish
mien! Love, you’re a star!
• • •