Today, everything is beautiful.
the weather is beautiful, the sky is beautiful, the hum of the IBM Selectric III is beautiful, Chopin’s Nocturnes are beautiful, my wife is beautiful, my wife is beautiful, and there is nothing else.
February 15, 2011
have the mother effin flu tuesday
Charlie Chaplin died on my first birthday. I don’t remember if there was a pall over the celebration or for that matter, if there was a celebration of any measure besides the obvious, Christmas.
I’ve been getting sick for the past few days and today am full blown – too headachey and tired to write worth a damn, mainly posting to let the people I owe letters to that I haven’t forgotten them. I will write soon, this week in fact – just not today.
February 15
and I sober from
valentines day, sober from
cards revealing love
and whatnot
sober from peanuts specials
sober from cupcakes
sober from closeness
sober from rich dinners
prepared and consumed
with bread
– unfinished, Hoc Scripsi
February 14, 2011
Happy Birthday Gregory Heins
oh, and it’s Valentines day too.
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a love poem
I caught your glance
and offered a small gift
which you refused.
an apple,
a token, to toe
the water.
another month and you would acquiesce
to my teenaged display of nerves.
I was twenty-three
you were soft and scared
and thinking I’d meant to use you
but I’d love you instead.
you humored me
answering every question
I had.
you were twenty-five
and I knew, over coffee
that first night
at Denny’s,
our life would be braved
unknown
together.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 