Rebellion

I think the most rebellious thing one can do is somersault down hills, large hills, preferably with a polluted river at the bottom so that one can swim across it and climb the hills on the other side all oily and soaking wet. It is best to do this rebellious act in the presence of no one.

Longer Hands

"I broke my Islets of Langerhans when I was one day old.
They snapped in a thousand and one places.
Who knew you could break your Islets of Langerhans?
And at one day old, no less!"

These are the sorts of fabrications I make,
the fabrics I weave (with really neat geometric Navajo-style patterns!)
over the huge net that falls now
upon so many. Nobody
is asked to think that they are legitimate,
but they're (a hell! of) a lot more real
than some of those space blankets
that float around in the spider's web.

That spider is boring, and its
web needs no sticky substances --
it traps us in our own aimlessness carelessness thoughtlessness restlessness
and all of the other lessnesses we find in our pockets
along with our short hands.

An Evening

            It tasted like somebody had put the one great-land-piece and another great-land-piece in a cup, mixed it with some of the sea and made it hot. It also tasted like nuts, and it tasted like the birth of Jesus. It tasted like dancing, too, the prettiest dancing and the bounciest made-sounds from a man of the east. It tasted a little bit like my house back home. It tasted like a lot of things, and I liked it.

            We talked about our friends while we drank it, friends we had before and that we might still have. We talked about time more than anything else. (But when is anybody not talking about time?)

            What we talked about held much weight, but what held more weight was her face as I looked at it (and perhaps my face as she looked at it). It was dark, stern, but welcoming. Its shape comes from a land just west of the land that the bouncy made-sounds that the land-and-sea-drink tasted like came from. And the shape of my face comes from a land nearby, but a darker land where faces are lighter. We are both cut off from those lands, she by several years and I by many.

            We laughed together. (I may have even giggled.) We laughed, but I do not think that it was because of funniness. I think the laughing was because of niceness. Everything was so nice. (What could I do but laugh?)

            I thought about kissing her face, it was so nice, but then I thought that I did not need to do that. Maybe I could have kissed a part of her face that most people would not kiss. Not her lips, but the tip of her nose or right between her eyes or maybe half-way between her left ear and the middle of her cheek (near the jaw-bone). Anyway, I did not kiss her face, which was fine.

            We talked about trees, too, puffy tress. How at some point in time we thought to bring what was outside inside when we are jolly. It sure is lovely. (But who thought of it?)

            We talked until our land-and-sea-drinks were all gone, and then we kept talking for a while. We kept talking about our friends and our blood-people, who we both love so much.

            We held more and more weight with our words, and more and even more weight with our faces, with the looks on our faces. Much time had passed and much had been held – words, laughing, niceness, kiss-thoughts, cups full of land-and-sea-drink, empty cups – all of them so weighty.

            I did not want to go, but after some time I had this thought that I had to go. And so I went. For the last small stretch of time we spoke no words, and it was only faces. I swung the door on its hinges and asked her to feel more niceness in the following time, which was night-time.

Painted Face

Painted face, painted face,

"A lady must always have a painted face."

Don't ever let them see your tainted grace,

and never, for heaven's sake, give them your name to praise,

Painted Face.

Once I hear a man thinking out loud about a sexual fantasy he had where there was a woman, a painter, and she was using her body as the canvas, all of its parts, every surface. Why he spoke about it in public, I don't know. That generally is not acceptable.

Painted face, painted face,

not crazy but obsessed beyond all reason;

to do anything else would be high treason,

and never, for heaven's sake, appear to graze,

Painted Face.

when i feel the best

when i take off my vest

and snow starts falling on and in my chest

: that's when i feel the best.

when beasts are next to me,

i run with them, i'm childish, and i'm free

: that's when i find the key.

"okay," i hear you say,

"but you will do nothing if you just play"

: and so i run away.

Ambitions

Today's to-do list:

pick up eggs, milk, wine
drop kids off at school
conquer Albania
call my sister
relax a little with a good book
find true love
discover America
organize for potluck next week
eat Stonehenge
get computer fixed
get car fixed
pick up kids from school
go fox hunting in outer space
cook dinner
eat dinner
eat Mt. Rushmore
try not to drink too much
make friends with a large hippopotamus
call Linda (she's going through a lot right now)
purchase twigs
go through re-birthing ceremony
try not to drink too much
buy gift for Drew
conquer Europe on the back of a jolly tapir
go to bed

Sonnet

These are the longest shadows in the world;
one tree outreaches everything, extends
for miles and miles, around the whole earth curled,
its backwards lightness all around me bends
and light from light its backwards lightness rends
all round and round the globe it casts, it tears,
not knowing any means or any ends,
just light and backwards light and frigid airs.
But deep within dark houses, we have pears
and apples that we eat (only knowing
dark and backwards darkness) in our chairs,
knowing nothing of the outside glowing:
If we would step outside and cast our own
shadows, then we would be no more alone.