The park offers serenity and grass. Coffee tastes of clairvoyance and rain.
I do push-ups. My wife decorates cakes.
Once I owned a pair of beautiful gloves. They warmed my hands and inclined toward music. They were so beautiful that surrealism evolved a new form of neck and haberdashers worldwide sensed a new form of meat in the air.
Our stove is old but the burner bowls are new. The old ones had holes in them. The new burner bowls were hard to find. We looked all over the internet. We finally found some at Sears.
The planet orbits a corpulent yellow sun and wobbles on its axis creating four seasons: horrible, less horrible, velvet, and so-so.
I work on a farm with Guillaume Apollinaire. I have grown feathers. There are feathers all over my body. I constantly itch.
The air is heavy. The rain comes and goes.
The mirror in the bathroom is large and honest. A bathmat hangs from a chrome bar on the shower door. It has a light blue background and a motif of arabesques and flowers rendered in white. One of the edges is frayed. White threads in impish dishevelment.
There is a large pitcher and washbowl on the bureau that once belonged to my grandparents in North Dakota. It’s porcelain and very, very white. I used to think it was a ghost when I spent the night on my grandparent’s farm and saw it glowing in the dark while the weather vane creaked on the roof and branches of a nearby sycamore scraped the wall. There is a pair of earphones and a flyer for the Columbia Tower sticking out of the bowl.
I am comfortable in my life. More or less. But then, I don’t know any other life. I would have to live it to tell you how it feels.
The city we inhabit is rich, restless, and ruthless. My private life is perforated, huckleberry, and hyperbolic. My public life is mindful, chalky, and subterranean. Together, they create a feeling of awkward duplication. For example, it would be more agreeable to indulge a celestial ductility than grovel in fruitless subjunctives.
I need some fingernail polish for retouching the corner of the wall by the door in the bathroom where it was scratched by carpet layers maneuvering a roll of carpet into the bedroom. You can hardly see it, but it bugs me. I hoped to find the paint that I used to paint the bathroom when we cleaned out the utility closet under the stairwell. I thought I had saved a pint, but apparently not. Hence, fingernail polish. I don’t want to buy a full pint.
The most perfect abstraction is horses.
Most of the time, I am clean shaven. I grew a beard once when I was in my thirties. It didn’t feel right. My mouth felt like a hole in a forest of hair. Nor did I feel comfortable sporting such an evident sign of masculinity. I prefer presenting to the world the mordant and alienated look of a clean shaven Charles Baudelaire. Being nothing in front of no one.
Magazine to feed for (notes on birdsong)
23 hours ago