The little dog, marking his territory in a neighborhood of big dogs–a bit like academic poetry, but cleaner.
Leaves in the maple across the street, deciding.
I want to keep my dignity in the last garden. Wonder if I can do it.
Most reports of famous people’s last words are false. Apparently Oscar Wilde died thirty five times.
I want to jump into the ocean again.
Here comes the king from last night’s dream, still carrying the cake.
Christopher HItchens, arguing women aren’t funny: there’s such a thing as having too much fun and not enough.
Freud: “Where Id was, there shall ego be, it is reclamation work, like the draining of the Zuyder Zee.”
What the little dog knows: meaning is new, or not at all.
Plato’s ideal state requires the abolition of the family, and probably little dogs, and most certainly poetry. What’s left? Oaths and cigars.
Little dog, here’s a sketch of my heart in its crystal box.
Now, all the combat hardened soldiers of my unconscious are feeding their firebirds.
Coffee. Please. Afterwards I will change into my direct contrary.