Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,
U.S.A., and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.

It begins:

Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?

Anne:
They were tired.

Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.

Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.

I watered and fed con cafe y chocolate the plant (over eaves under even steve and adam never ever) brittle sans winter. Je suis sans ______.

Thirty. stolen.


All I Really Need

Just clean underwear,
three inches of whiskey and
half your attention

typingexplosion

x

Hey, Vir:

You try to emulate the classical
romantics and wits of what you wish
you'd been - born a century or so
too late - and fall instead just short of poise,
landing instead somewhere between trite
and true. Still, in that pretty head
there's promise, and an interest bolstered
by real talent. How's your Latin? Try
shedding the rhyme scheme for a while; see
what it might be like to call me something
other than Thee. I know it was the moon
brought you to me, in circumstances true
to form and just your kind of thing - listen:
quick but kind does fellow poet sing.

Twenty-nine. schizophrenic monotheism.


The U.S.S. Menorah:



In the window of the dining room wherein waits the Advent wreath.

Edward White searched for books in the Evanston Public Library about homosexuality and found only Thomas Mann's Death in Venice and a biography of Nijinski.

Still I think I'm doing fine

Wouldn't it be a lovely headline:

"Life is Beautiful" on the New York Times

(rufus wainwright )

There's a patch of old snow in a corner
   That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
   Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if
   Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten -
   If I ever read it.

-- Robert Frost

Twenty - eight.


...This man loves me for my wit, my nerve,
for the way my long legs fall from hemmed skirts.
When he rolls his body against mine, I know
he feels someone else. There's no blame.
I love him, even as I remember a man with cane-
brown hands, palms pink as blossoms opening
over my breasts.


And he holds me,
even with all those other fingers wrestling
inside me, even with all those other shoulders
wedged above his own like wings.

-- Dorianne Laux
from Ghosts

x

But love, that word...Horacio the moralist, fearful of passions born without some deep-water reason, disconcerted and surly in the city where love is called by all the names of all the streets, all the buildings, all the flats, all the rooms, all the beds, all the dreams, all the things forgotten or remembered. My love, I do not love you for you or for me or for the two of us together, I do not love you because my blood tells me to love you, I love you because you are not mine, because you are from the other side, from there where you invite me to jump and I cannot make the jump, because in the deepest moment of possession, you are not in me, I cannot reach you, I cannot get beyond your body, your laugh, there are times when it torments me that you love me.

--Julio Cortazar, from Hopscotch

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing . . .

(WS)

I have written my Christmas cards. wine women and song. snow.