In All My Years As a Pedestrian Serving Juice To Guests, It Never Occurred To Me Thoughtfully To Imagine How a Radish Feels. She Merely Arrived
Barring the unexpected, two new folk moving into our house end of August (they are only five weeks old now), both children of ferals in York, Pennsylvania, rescued by a friend of L's, a crazier cat-person than even us (though we have more garden statuary), I'll soon be able to walk into my house and yell, Lucy, I'm home
Our next door neighbor is luckily (if you're me) or unluckily (if you're L) named Ricky, so Bob, short for Babalu (L did not get my allusion when I said Bob Alou the missing fourth Alou brother, the fuck am I old)
I love all cats but love black cats best. Strangest days of my life, I'm reading, and enjoying, and now jinxing Henry James' The Ambassadors, attempt number 54,798 at reading James, at the insistence of two English professors and longtime friends I promised years ago at a Thursday Night Pints I'd keep trying James' late great trilogy (Wings of the Dove and The Golden Bowl the other two) until I get it or keep trying until end times if necessary. I can't name Bob Lambert since Lambert, aka Corrente, a lost blogbud, already taken, I can see why. End times? Have a grid below the Miles Davis, today is his centenary
"The psychopaths are conditioning us, through sheer repetition, to inhabit their moral universe of the medieval dark ages, in which prisoners are tortured and raped as a matter of operational routine, and the response of the civilized world is a furrowed brow and a State Department briefing about the importance of continued partnership"
In all my years as a pedestrian
serving juice to guests, it never occurred to me
thoughtfully to imagine how a radish feels.
She merely arrived. Half-turning
in the demented twilight, one feels a
sour empathy with all that went before.
That, needless to say, was how we elaborated
ourselves staggering across tracts:
Somewhere in America there is a naked person.
Somewhere in America adoring legions blush
in the sunset, crimson madder, and madder still.
Somewhere in America someone is trying to figure out
how to pay for this, bouncing a ball
off a wooden strut. Somewhere
in America the lonely enchanted eye each other
on a bus. It goes down Woodrow Wilson Avenue.
Somewhere in America it says you must die, you know too much.
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