I am slow. Alright. I’m not. I’m faster than Goethe’s cuckoo clock. Faster than a glass of water. For company I have a dictionary. Raspberries. Risible. Rococo. What’s that at my door? Its the Rosicrucians.
In our youngest days when we were shaken awake by desires we loved the Phoebe bird. Even now, verging on age, we love the Phoebe. He sang from a birch as I passed this morning walking my dog. He thrilled my heart. My confused and abject little heart.
A writer I admire once said there are many situations when the first person—second person pronoun monopoly of the English language is insufficient. I and You need gussying up.
This is especially true in airports. To whit: “The passenger known as Kuusisto (see his ticket) would like the august and delightful employee of Curbcut Airlines (hereby identified as Herkimer Kiwi) to smile broadly and groove to the warmth of our combined and burning identification papers.”
I wonder where the old, dried boys of my childhood are today? The ones who chased me with sticks because I was blind. Oh well. Goethe’s cuckoo clock cuckoos. “No time for weevils,” it says.
Let’s pass through the gate of horn.
**
My mother was a woman of snow
My father was a man of snow
My fingers are made of snow
That is all
Äitini oli nainen lunta
Isäni oli mies lunta
Sormet tehty lumesta
Se on kaikki
**
I once ate a bear steak and felt rather bad about having done so. That is, I suffered only the ill effects that arise from eating your brother.
**
I try to be funny—you know, only half in the world. In this way, the further griefs sometimes miss me.
**
Thinking of the new pope—reminded of Carl Jung’s assertion Catholics are easier to cure of neuroses than Protestants. Francis wants more neuroses in the flock. And good for him.
**
Here come the three strange angels formerly known as D.H. Lawrence.
Let them in.
Planet of the Blind 