Notebook, October 2017 

planet of the blind

King worm drops to the floor having taken too much Beethoven. There are no loudspeakers in nature. At first he thrilled to the sensations—moisty liminal guts buzzing with the string section,

all that rum ti tum zithing the straight line of his pooper but then Ludwig nackered him with tympani and you know, the poor bastard’s just a worm who’s lost. “How to you paint music?” he thinks, scooching his way on lemon-lime linoleum.


You breathed right up against the windowpane. Drew your mother from memory. Breathed again. She was gone.


Sometimes when I go to a funeral I’m aware the dead man knows my thoughts and there’s no blinking it away. This is why I don’t like ministers. They don’t get this.


Everything I touched today belonged to Rimsky Korsakov.


Last night I slept walked to the river.

All rivers wear black coats days, evenings, doesn’t matter.

Gave the river my white sleep shirt

Just to cheer it.

“You know,” I said, “textiles…”


I have always hated the laughter of drunks. Their mirth is terrifying, like the sounds we’ve recorded from the sun.


The water shining through trees. Lake of childhood.

Long ago I saw despair on the surface.

Don’t cry anymore!


King worm has a pair of wooden clogs which he uses as his winter and summer palaces. Wind blows darkness outside.


Do you ever see something innocent in the faces of old men and women? It’s the pink undamaged. Always a miracle since mostly we’re all ashes in rain.


I make mistakes over and over because I believe in assisting powerless human beings and animals. This means I argue with bureaucrats, sometimes noisily. The organizers don’t like me much. I sit opposite them, at a big table, trying to see myself as an organ, a stomach in a larger body.


Missing the daily mail. Cutting open letters with a horse head knife.


Dogs know the heavens do not turn in silence and they’re simultaneously cheerful.


Put on my little “peace hat” and pepper the aborning hour with words—names—Isaac Bashevis Singer, entelechy, sea cucumber, yellow mittens, mother-world. No one is about in my neighborhood. No one’s awake. The houses are all buttoned, windows dark. My feet love the wet road. I think I need to pardon my youth. I hear the Phoebe bird. The age I live in has a dark taste. I’m seldom prone to this but I do sometimes wish I was a bird.


Count on me

Says the pea-stalk reindeer


Birches clouds books



“Embraceable You”—Bill Evans


Up and down the museum stairs above the physical museum. That’s the ticket.


Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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