words of a people aligned in their perfect order
Happy birthday Holy Allen, Happy birthday Josephine,
may your poems and songs in heaven reach here where your voices are still needed most
the good doctor, dead today, heart stopped and body preparing for rest
today I go out shooting guns and laying waste at ranges to celebrate second amendment
remembering Holy Allen, Josephine and now the good Doctor…
we will all meet in Heaven if that be where I end.
Shel, I’ll never forgive you for leaving us, as I’ll never forgive all those tethered to my heart except the one who left to leave behind her pain.
full moon fifty miles outside Chicago 72° heavy
winds from the should standing under the starry’d night
sky and this is what I’m thinking…
ainsi il va.
I am fairly embarrassed to call myself a blogger lately – as you can tell I’ve had other things on my mind and keeping up with everything is difficult – So, I’ve read almost no blogs, written very little in mine and in general am none too fazed by this.
The words on the page look foreign to me and today we recall the death of Willem de Kooning. Becoming a ghost of his own brush stoke today in 1997.
Listening to Chopin, Opus 34, no. 2 in A minor – Writing a letter to a friend who I owe more than just that letter. I managed to nap between nine pm and eleven pm. awake now or still I can only think about Willem and Chopin, My friend and my pajamas.
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
the platitudes of willful resemblance 