Sunday, June 29, 2014


I hardly knew you, you with your brown curls and your upturned mouth,
you who shouted obscenities into space as it whirled and twirled above me.
I couldn't find you then.  You were lost to me.  We looked in the infinite
wilderness for you five days straight-all we could find were bogs and logs.
I thought you had disappeared, but there you were, still as stone, sitting
in the rocking chair on the dilapidated back porch.  I shouted at you joyfully.
I was in joyous measure.  You happened to be there.  But still, I hardly
knew you, you who do all the talking, talking about bygone days and autumn
nights, your dress whirling around your legs like a curlicue.

The Couch.

I often find myself looking out of windows.
I remember Julius Caesar liked to look out of windows.
The sun sets in the west and rises in the east; at that time,
I am sleeping, dreaming of Hamlet.  What once was now is now
before, and I don't know when I will be back.  The drawing of myself
is hanging in the living room, brought to me by Jack Hanner, the man
who stole my heart.  He didn't exactly steal it; my heart still remains
beating.  I don't know about the beating of other things in this world;
the beating of the drum on Harlan Avenue from the man in the blue hat,
the beating of the rain as it pours down onto the windows of my house.
My house is big enough to fill a hundred fig bars, they are my favorite.
I think about eating.  Eating is eating.  It fills up ten minutes out of
the day then we're back doing other things again, reading, watching
tv, fighting with our loved ones about who gets the couch.