Much beloved Bleaders,
Like Victor Frankenstein, before he made his big fellow, I was in the wrong century by several.
My first introductions to what living poets were, occurred when they translated the long dead.
Among others, Bly/Basho:
The morning glory
another thing
that will never be my friend.
xxxxx
xxxx
xxxxxxx
the above being the syllabic echo that brings the meaning like a hot rod to the scene.
It is such a freeky good hunk of syllables because yah, most of the world is items, not friends. Plus, can you even believe the universe takes the trouble to run practically every city in Europe and Asia, every night, even when we are not there to see it? Outside the IM Pei pyramid at the Louvre several witty Frenchies right now loiter. You're not going to make friends with them either. Think of the sheer number of people with whom you are never going to have sex. Or rather, without whom you are going to have sex. Something to do with sex, I'm not sure. Like my gorgeous president, sometimes you just let your summit about how to get this thing done turn into a summit about when you are going to have another summit to get this thing done. Oh well, if you're in a room and smoking a cigar maybe you just can't ask anyone else in the room to put out their butt. But screw the G8, back to the V8. Not only weeds bedevil me veg. Also friendly fire: The morning glories in my garden are winding and winding up the tomatoes. So after a life of thinking what Bly and Basho blinked on the subject, I'm killing weeds and carefully unwrapping these pretty wretches and just as maternal fury arises in my blood's defense of the plentiful as yet green berries of tomato and what comes to mind, this time in vexation?
xxxxx
xxxx
xxxxxxx
(themorninggloryanotherthingthatwillneverbemyfriend)
Do you see? All these years, I thought of mg as what we wished to befriend but couldn't, then now here I am, uncurling its needy tendrils from my groovy bodacious pizza makers, and I can't help but sigh. Or wince. I can't help but smile. I can't help but type and think illegal thoughts. I can't help but help. I can't. I am a person who is a person. Who is a person?
I keep rereading one of the above sentences of this post and laughing. It is the second one of these two: Think of the sheer number of people with whom you are never going to have sex. Or rather, without whom you are going to have sex.
Why do I find this so high larious? Perhaps I am tired. The top pic is a phlash foto I took of the pretty purple sky over Brooklyn tonight. For those lost in lands gorgeous. I wink at thee. I laugh, out loud.
Visit or visitation? Visit me other manifestation.
Or buy a book it will give you a good feeling all over.
Me as a negative capability.
Me as a punching line.
For all the ghouls I've loved before,
Jennifer