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In the land of Nebbia, the mistiest part of Etruria, it was the month of Agnosto, when anything can happen, and Melliflua was pondering what to do about the fauns.
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You will know the country for fences, for feces, for cows, or,
You will know the country for the smell of hay and manure blowing over the hills to you.
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This artist has a wonderful sense of line and color. Abstract is not my métier, but I appreciate the art behind this painting. It helps to copy it. You sleep with it for a time and, like a woman, you learn her passions and taboos.
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The world's anxious fire breathing mob still wants in, but they don't know what in the smoke they are looking for. They aren't really thinking in that intellectual direction. All these wonderful, friendly books you see do not hold the answer or…
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Once, during an argument, she had said, It’s like there’s another woman, except she doesn’t exist. Which sometimes it really did feel like, a betrayal, being thrown over for someone else. The muse.
She could have shot the muse.
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Why am I attracted to this girl?
She’s beautiful. Only five foot four, but still looks skyscraper tall thanks to those skinny greyhound legs of hers. She told me she used to dance, then giggled and said she hadn’t since she was five years old.
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That’s the way it went all day with me—didn’t get far, didn’t see much, just, with Mary, drank tea here and there. A fine day it was, too; not cloudy, not raining...
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Let's go now with those precisely marching shiny cloud band members, so eagerly clanging their golden sleeves togetherover there in the valley of new light, for instance. They can lift wholeoceans up, like baby children, for a seriesof smooches, all of…
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I have a ball-pein hammer in my coat pocket.
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Standing there as you walked away from me that late March afternoon, in the park off Meridian Street, the spring tableau seemed
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I just sit here thinking
You’re cheating on me again
It’s how you acted last time
The same as it’s ever been
Don’t wanna go ballistic
What’s inside your head?
Why don’t you just tell me
Who’s been sleeping in that bed
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Whatever the world is it is alsoyou. This leaves me smiling. I'm glad you arein it. I'm glad for the deepest colorblue like the Mediterranean sea,for instance. Baby orangutans. Forclouds and mushrooms and seahorses. Songs fromtreetops. Whatever the world has it has…
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In the exquisite now, I feel everything around me, in me, before and after, I think, I should call you, say goodnight, but I do not, choose instead to write this poem, as though I can capture the magic of what is happening between us in words, A…
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I gently honked my horn and gave her the kind of friendly neighbor wave that only friendly neighbors can give. She didn’t wave back. What the hell is her problem?
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The three kings decide to leave their kingdoms, all on their own without family, retainers, armies or servants, and wander about the middle east carrying valuable items.
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the moon's got it out for
the far-sighted
punkish usuper supping
on the upswing of
a downward slope
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Then dared each other to travel
Much further
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Tears and tears and tears flowed
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Some tough young punk with dreadlocks
Was walking down the sidewalk while texting
And got frightened when he was buzzed
By a hummingbird
Saying “oh shit”
He ducked, but then looked all around
To make sure no one saw him
Of course, I wa
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In an early scene in Marvel's 2015 movie Ant-Man, the film's protagonist, Scott Lang, a convicted felon and former burglar, is summoned to his boss Dale's office at Baskin-Robbins."Three years at San Quentin, huh?" says Dale."You found out," Scott replies."Baskin-Robbins…
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... and that’s the story of the Polish worker who looks like van Gogh.
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Though she is looking at me, I sense she is seeing someone else. Somewhere else. Maybe a long time ago. Her hair looks like cotton and a silk scarf is draped elegantly across her frail shoulders. Plum lipstick outlines lips almost vanished with age.
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I'm not generally a believer. But I do sense things. I see things.
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I’m squatting naked over the hand mirror, feet cold on the terrazzo floor, looking at my winking arsehole.
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“... More weighty than wisdom or wealth is a little folly" (Ecclesiastes)
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I hadn't yet assembled enough pieces of Italian to explain any of this, but it was hardly necessary. The fact that I was a scrittore in a language foreign to her seemed to make me especially fascinating...
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We came to the dump at dusk to shoot rats.
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With his toga thrown over one shoulder because it was so hot out which has led to various and sundry theories of the naked centurions riding on horses in this manner through some unimaginable desert on a long march or even along the banks…
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