Archive for the 'Eros' Category

Make Way

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A crow came by and landed on the back lawn yesterday morning and caused a rarin’ ruckus because the jays and the robins and the starlings and the doves and the squirrels and all the other one ones didn’t know just didn’t know how to react to this big black what it isone all of a sudden all of a sudden coming in for a landing. But all for sure for sure all everybody was moved to a new and ‘cited hoppin’ jumpin’ jive. With that there crow arrive.

And on the front lawn yesterday morning a torn butterfly ripped to final fatal shit by somebody—maybe; who knows; the crow—the butterfly aching and in pain with ants crawling all over its torn and tattered body and I brushed them away and placed the writhing pain-wracked dying creature in an oregano pot and observed, over the hours, over the hours, over the hours, over the hours, helpless, helpless, helpless, as it writhed, helpless, from life unto death, death, death, death.

Yesterday was my birthday.

And you want me to another year go through this again.
And you want me to another year go through this again.
And you want me to another year go through this again.
And you want me to another year go through this again.
And you want me to another year go through this again.

and you were standin’ there
and you were standin’ there
and you were standin’

there

in all your revelation
waitin’ for me to come

ain’t nobody
gonna stop me from lovin’ you baby

Who Knows Where The Time Goes

I have a recurring fantasy that if one were to dial the telephone number of someone in the past, one would hear again a familiar voice, and time would instantly rewind from now to then. I still have Orson Welles’ telephone number in my book (213-851-8458). Do I dare ring him and talkstill here to him back in 1982, where he is busy trying to convince Jack Nicholson to play Pellarin for two not four million dollars? Should I tell him that he’ll not get the picture made? No. That would be too harsh. I’ll pretend that I have somehow got a copy of it, and that I think it marvellous though perhaps the handkerchief was, from so prudish a master, a bit much? Even incredible.

“Incredible?” The voice booms in my ear.”How could it be incredible when I stole it from Othello? But now I have a real treat for you. Standing here is your neighbour . . . Rudy Vallee! Overcome that ‘quiet reserve of shyness.’ Sing!

From out of the past, I hear, “My time is your time,” in that reedy highly imitable voice. The after-life’s only a dial tone away. “What makes you think that this is the after-life?” Orson chuckles. “This is a recording.” Stop story here.

—Gore Vidal, “Remembering Orson Welles”

No Ways Tired

from & for sugar

Nose For News

All day I have been seeing these headlines about some racehorse and “nasal strips.”

Do I even want to snortknow what this is about?

No. I do not.

All I know is that yesterday I bought a pink plastic watering can in the shape of a pig; when you water, the water flows out the pig’s twin noseholes.

This, clearly, is the zenith of both the industrial age, and the information age.

As they say in scripture: “It is accomplished.”

Both ages: they are over.

Now, we can move on to something else.

As we can move on to something else from “riding” a horse in a “race.”

When you are with an animal, when an animal is with you, you are only, who you are, when it’s an island.

Just you two.

And you are an animal. All of you.

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree


When I Worked

September 2014
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