I have a friend who manages a parking lot outside a large office building. The other day she told me that there were no longer many condoms found in the lot but there were many dental picks. I’m not sure if this is good or bad and I guess it depends on your point of view. Good to take care of your teeth but bad to miss out on passion.
We would be honored to publish The Favorite. It’s wonderful. In fact, it’s so wonderful that I hope you collect a dozen offers to publish and choose the one which will win you a hundred thousand fans, and make you become required reading for poetry classes and Road Scholars across the country. Actually, that’s a half truth. We’d be happy if it happened, but we hope you’ll come straight to us despite the likelihood that you could find a larger press with more sophisticated ways of getting the word out. It’s not often that we find a poet who can make us laugh, wince, laugh again, and float meditatively into the bluest sky Missouri offers. I’m still floating.
I’ll send a copy of our standard contract to you as soon as you respond.
Trulia is my travel agent of emotional escapes and several times a week I am a voyeur into other people’s lives. There are several settings to consider before I go on my trip: price, location, amount of bedrooms and bathrooms, acreage, and one that I always take seriously which is fireplaces. Once I have made my selection, I begin my voyage. I prefer houses that range in price from 10 to 20 million with at least seven bedrooms because then I have a lot to manage. It’s important to have staff rooms as well. Yesterday I transported myself into a mansion in Pebble Beach, California. The rooms were large and had heavily ornate little metal crosses on the walls and enormous arrangements of dried flowers in dark, muted colors like vampire rooms.There was a dining room with a stand in the corner for reading the Bible and at least three kitchens spread throughout the house. My very favorite room, however, gave me the inspiration that I had been looking for. The master bedroom. There was an enormous bed with a headboard covered in powder and silk and a duvet also covered in the same silk spread over the feet. The nightstands consisted of pieces of glass balance upon carved gold wood made to look like unicorns who are slightly crazed. There, above the fireplace, was a portrait of the mistress of the house and when I saw the portrait I knew I had found my true self. She was blonde with babe hair that hung to her waist and was thick and wavy.She wore a black knit dress, unbuttoned, and a black lace bra under that. The black dress clung to her curves and she was leaning forward with both hands holding onto a couch breasts pressed forward as if to say I’ve got you in the palm of my hand. She was a dame. She was a slut. She was in control. There was no question that this was her House. Oh! How I wanted to be her! Powerful! Sexy! Men falling at her feet! She probably had a gun underneath that black dress. She never suffered from loneliness or despair or depression or anxiety. No way Jose. She just lived in this giant house and swished around the hallways in her black dress and bossed people, Particularly men. It was really hard to leave that Trulia house.I figured if I stayed long enough staring at those photos I would end out being just like her.Fearless and powerful and as a woman who had never been victimized.
Go see this great show! Emily McDonnell is amazing!
The moon contains light
so tightly it dims the sky.
Day leaves my heart full.
This season, I’d still bet that a version of “love thy neighbor” is a political winner.
— Read on www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2019/12/25/how-americans-can-break-our-bitter-impasse/
Our Front Hall
Our front hall had a very tall grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs keeping watch over the household. No one could wind it but my father and the clock defined the nights in regular chimes reaching everyone’s ears in everyone’s bedroom.There was a front hall table made of lustrous mahogany where mail and packages were placed daily.The legs of the table looked like a young girl with four legs curtseying all at once. I know because I spent a lot of time under there waiting for God knows what. My favorite part however In this wonderful area of our house was the front hall closet which no one could put anything in except for my father. It was his personal closet for his overcoat and his hats and his umbrellas and his galoshes. I don’t remember hearing we weren’t supposed to go in the closet so I went in the closet quite a bit. There was a shelf the hats were on that had a thumbtacked piece of decorative ribbon that was ruched: something I had never seen before. I took some delight in pulling a piece of it off and seeing what it felt like. My father had four or five coats in there and most of the coats were some range of the color gray. There were cashmere coats, and wool coats, and cotton coats, and canvas coats. The coats had a big life and seemed to go out a lot. Sometimes alone, and sometimes in pairs the coats went out in the world: across oceans and in airplanes, office buildings, and houses not ours, down inside boats, outside on sidewalks. They always came back home slightly different than when they had left. I knew this because when I went in the closet I would stand up inside each coat starting with my head going into the bottom because they were buttoned up, you see, and I would shimmy myself up to usually just the lowest button because my father was very tall and I was still short. I would stand there and breathe in the outside world imagining where he had been and who he had seen and the smell of old Spice would anesthetize me against the real world. In the closet I created whatever I wanted sometimes for hours. No one ever looked for me. I stood so still inside a coat I became a part of its life.
In the December desert near the crepuscular
hour many people experience subtle, ocular
change. Sometimes these changes are
permanent. Saguaros (Te
quiero) can begin to move
and appear to challenge with their arms
the delicate prickly pear while the Feather
cactus plays, “catch a falling Star“. It is, however,
the Christmas cactus that interests me:
blooming blood red pink like a baby‘s lips exactly at the
time they say we had a virgin birth.
Who will tell it to bloom now that we have lost faith:
a world divided, no party lines, no Avon lady, no
agreement not to kill each other?