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Clock Runs Slow

In a thousand years

people will stare at the sun

and wonder who made it.


Watercolor Blossoms

Cherry petals float

in a lake of piss and rain;

city nights come slow.

 I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep

((It snowed today. The world is clean.))

(photo by Sukanto Debnath, from Hyderabad India– found via WikiMedia)

You are beautiful and faded,
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord;
Or like the sun-flooded silks
Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.
In your eyes
Smoulder the fallen roses of outlived minutes,
And the perfume of your soul
Is vague and suffusing,
With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.
Your half-tones delight me,
And I grow mad with gazing
At your blent colors.
My vigor is a new-minted penny,
Which I cast at your feet.
Gather it up from the dust
That its sparkle may amuse you.

I’m sorry I’ve been such a poop about writing here. I’ve just been so busy that all I’ve wanted to do in my off-time is veg out and watch episodes of Good Eats online….

I’m going to try out choux pastry in my roommate’s illegal toaster oven. (Toaster ovens are against dorm rules. We call him Bob and hide him whenever the RA’s come by.) I’ll try to get some easy-to-make cooking stuffs up on here to keep youse connected with my collegiate headspace. Y’know.




An Excerpt from Of Pairs by Josephine Jacobson

The mockingbirds, that pair, arrive,
one, and the other; glossily perch,
respond, respond, branch to branch.
One stops, and flies. The other flies.
Arrives, dips, in a blur of wings,
lights, is joined. Sings. Sings.

Actually, there are birds galore:
bowlegged blackbirds brassy as crows;
elegant ibises with inelegant cows;
hummingbirds’ stutter on air;
tilted over the sea, a man-of-war
in a long arc without a feather’s stir.

((LoveloveLOVE this– it really captures my raggle-taggle life right now. I have no pairs…))

(A quickie because I’m bushed. A Pablo Neruda sonnet, suggested by my sister)

I do not love you–except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
from waiting to not waiting for you
my heart moves from the cold into the fire.

I love you only because it’s you I love;
I hate you no end, and hating you
bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe the January light will consume
my heart with its cruel
ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

No telegram today
only more leaves


Wash hung out
by moonlight
Friday night in May.


Close your eyes -
 Landlord knocking
On the back door.


Fiddlydee! -
   Another day,
Another something-or-other!


If I go out now,
     my paws
  will get wet


Missing a kick
 at the icebox door
It closed anyway.


Unencouraging sign
 - the fish store
Is closed.


The rain has filled
 the birdbath
Again, almost


The little worm
 lowers itself from the roof
By a self shat thread


Like primitives we buried the cat
with his bowl. Bare-handed
we scraped sand and gravel
back into the hole.
They fell with a hiss
and thud on his side,
on his long red fur, the white feathers
between his toes, and his
long, not to say aquiline, nose.

We stood and brushed each other off.
There are sorrows keener than these.

Silent the rest of the day, we worked,
ate, stared, and slept. It stormed
all night; now it clears, and a robin
burbles from a dripping bush
like the neighbor who means well
but always says the wrong thing.


Once as I travelled through a quiet evening,
I saw a pool, jet-black and mirror-still.
Beyond, the slender paperbarks stood crowding;
each on its own white image looked its fill,
and nothing moved but thirty egrets wading –
thirty egrets in a quiet evening.

Once in a lifetime, lovely past believing,
your lucky eyes may light on such a pool.
As though for many years I had been waiting,
I watched in silence, till my heart was full
of clear dark water, and white trees unmoving,
and, whiter yet, those thirty egrets wading.


This poem runs around the edge of the turtle pond at the central park zoo, in New York City. The pond is a delicate, unpretentious place, with no fancy animals or exhibits. Just some water, a few unassuming freshwater fish, and turtles. Most people just slide through, glance around, and slide off again. It’s ny favorite place in the whole zoo, because it’s the quietest.

(Photo from

We real cool. We
Left School. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

(Just in case you might be wondering)