There he stood, painter of a man. Guernica in pieces. And dropped the bomb: “I’m a Quaker,” he whistled.
Do you remember the great poem by William? He said, “red wheelbarrows are reliable.” I have a pail, and shall graduate from that through sand.
In the making of tea, use three packets instead of one. Sugar is absent, unless your sweet soul is from Georgia and your teeth are gritty with bitter.
When I was five, the cartwheels raced along the fields at school like poppies in the fields at Normandy. I was so good at numbers then.
If I pray with beads of sweat or landmarks on the rosary, is it not the same? I will be a far-flung, four-eyed priest someday.
Thursday was a band of rain and Friday is the sun, but if I spread the butter thickly on that doughnut, there is sunshine in my spirit.
Sips and sips and tips and drips and coffee until the swing of swigging stalls—Fridays ripe with adventure and insecurities. I’ve on my vomit shirt.
Trust me, I told the attendant riddled with an acne plague, I will only be parked for five minutes. And I will leave better than I came, in a car.
France started a war with itself and lost. They beat the rest of us to the punch, and wine.
Dreaming starts tomorrow because the taxes are too high and there’s a hole in the butt of my jeans. I will share it with the office, and my august angst.
One time, I gutted myself to speak like Jimmy Stewart reciting a limerick to dyspeptic children. He has no way with children, and neither do I. It is a shame that children are our future.
Pharaoh had the balls to erect things. Now erected, Egypt crumbles and I tease fantasies of Tutankhamun.
I’d rather be a goat than a llama, but if it is necessary, I will be human.
“To be” is a silly question. It’s the rub.