It was after Tone’s fortieth birthday party that they came to the decision.
As Scarlett was leaving to walk their father home, Tone pulled her aside and asked if she could come back later. Y’know, to help clean up—he suggested.But between their eyes was the truth of what they had to talk about.
By the time she had returned Tone’s few remaining friends had gone.
As they busied themselves straightening up he broke the silence.
We have to get Dad into a safer place. He can’t continue living alone anymore.
Since their mother had died, Scarlett and Tone always invited…
and then it is gone,
We walked through the woods this afternoon
(and though we had them
not enough to open umbrellas)
—the drops caught by the fresh green canopy
of newly emerged leaves
over the path.
Almost, just almost, you could feel
the throbbing humming pulsing—
flower scents mingling
with wet earth smells of decay.
The passionate watercolor brushes of Charles Burchfield
would be my choice for trying to capture
this palpitating quivering trembling mural
of early spring.
We talked very little—
mostly adjectives of Awe.
Diving acrobats, the birds
from tree to ground
He lay his head on the pillow, eyes closing to the outlines of the room created by the streetlight through the curtains.
And so his ears took over the vigilance. As his body relaxed on the bed he pulled a cool smooth sheet over himself.
They had made love. She was half way to dreams already. Even during a war people need sleep, need touch.
Through the window from outside that familiar hum — something he’d never taken the time to identify, something just always there filling the night air. He has surmised a generator. He has imagined a hovering…
I remember standing on a street corner with the black painter Beauford Delaney down in the Village, waiting for the light to change, and he pointed down and said, ‘Look.’ I looked and all I saw was water. And he said, ‘Look again,’ which I did, and I saw oil on the water and the city reflected in the puddle. It was a great revelation to me. I can’t explain it. He taught me how to see, and how to trust what I saw. Painters have often taught writers how to see. And once you’ve had that experience, you see…
Looking down into the snow globe
as the last few flakes settle down
my mind wanders inside that small chalet in there
then down the hall to the room painted grey
where the philosophers are deconstructing nursery rhymes.
There are eight gathered here.
Unlike the twelve angry men
—they are not here to reach a Verdict.
But rather to shape, like sculptors
—an Opinion. And thus a course of action.
While I await the result
to build my course of action
the Tinker (in this case Bell)
and a Tailor named Elizabeth
are ruminating appetizers by the buffet table.
It began with my turning over and ignoring the morning alarm clock. It ended with my contacting lawyers. We are such stuff.
Moving along, there was a passing remark from my supervisor, Peter, in the cafeteria—we were both getting a coffee. I sensed it was a Monday.
He said something about the job market being better these days and my possibilities of finding something “better than this humdrum”.
It stuck with me all day, gnawing away as I picked the orders, packed them, and set the filled carts by the back docks for pickup. Trancelike repetition.
When we’re asleep going…
8 August 2021 is the 23rd Annual One World Orgasm day.
(For the more deistically minded: Global Orgasm Day.)
I wrote about it in detail last year.
Whether you’re a fan of holidays, sex and orgasms, movies, art, plagiarism, peace on earth, humor, even Arthur C. Clarke—I encourage you to read it.
One World Orgasm Day (6 August 2020)
Sex Stories Over The Decades
Since my 20’s (that would be 4+ decades ago) I have written a number of short stories with, to various degrees, sexual overtones and undertones.
Some relationship focused—some hovering over the bed.
The story locations vary…
Every weekday morning as he poured his first cup of coffee, his eyes still unable to focus, he’d yell from the kitchen — anybody famous die?
And every morning, from where she sat, with her by-that-time second cup of coffee, eyes focused on something on the computer, she’d yell back—Who’s asking?
One of the remaining living—was always the reply—the next verbal loop in their morning routine.
Because this dance was rehearsed daily she had done her “research” and had the answers prepared as he came into the room to sit down at his desk.
I do not understand.
I understood to the other room.
I understood to the store.
Sure, to work, that was adjustable and understandable.
To another city.
Yes even that time to another country.
But to be nowhere-to-be-found
no such being anywhere—
no matter how carefully I look
no matter how much I need to tell or ask something
no matter how that lack of presence
lives on in every room
and around every corner.
This I do not understand.
I can understand for a few minutes.
I understood for a few days.
A few weeks seemed understandable under the circumstances.
“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut. . . . If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”— Stephen King
Most of my reading is done on public transportation. Has been since I was a teenager going back and forth to school on the subway.
It was one of the top reasons I moved back to New York City eleven…