Rimembri ancora
Quel tempo della tua vita mortale
Quando belta splendea
Negli occhi tuoi ridente e fuggitivi…
-Giacomo Leopardi
Our old friend Rachel Green from Friends has been working working working in the movie biz year after year, and the movies have been very good to her.
In this less than life-size photo of her new house, the red arrow points at a Porsche 4-door Panamera, to give you some idea of the scale of things, and in the wee pre-dawn hours almost a hundred little geysers will erupt from an underground labyrinth of water-pipes to keep all that greenery green and flourishing in the middle of a very dry metropolis.
But if you’re looking for a prime example of “the 1%” from Occupy Whatever’s inane slogan, then forget about Rachel Green! Her spot in “the 1%” is what she turned down when she didn’t marry that nice dentist from New Jersey, with his $300K per annum and a dismal pile of bricks in some boring Jersey suburb.
This man is my chaperone.
I am his polyp.
You can call me “Miss Peony”
or “Penny Slop.”
I make penis burn like acetylene rhinoceros!
You want tonsil typhoon?
Penis fit in one nostril!
Phooey on my loins?
I shall preen my seraphic oyster!
This man is my chaperone.
I am his polyp.
"Charles" wasn’t "Charles" Simic’s name,
it was "Doo-Shawn Simic," as in
" Howdy, Ma’am! My name is Doo-Shawn Simic!"
"I’m a Libra. My hobbies are
burping and refrigerator magnets."
………………………………………………………………………..
Now it’s 10 AM!
Doo-Shawn Simic writes a poem at this hour every day!
"Poetry is an orphan of silence," he begins, but then…
"Oh fuck! I already wrote that poem!"
Doo-Shawn burps and grabs his refrigerator magnets.
"Awr-rrrurp!"
"Orphans are the poetry of silence!"
"Silence is the poetry of orphans!"
"Poetry is the poetry of poetry!"
"Silence is the silence of silence"
"Where the fuck are the rest of my refrigerator magnets?"
"Awr-rrrrurp!"
I asked for an imperial
song and dance
and in run a bunch of
zombie cloggers and singing zits!
Admen said it was a mystery
but we already understand
that all of us are
naked
under our underpants.
They call it missing in action, but those soldiers are missing at home, too, at every wedding and every graduation and every holiday.
Sometimes you meet an old man who has children and grandchildren now, and he never had a father. You meet amputees who had twenty good years ahead of them, playing softball or throwing a football around on Thanksgiving or pushing a stroller and lifting a baby ever so carefully out of it…
No war ever ends.
I remember Mr. Bush in the Press Club video, looking under a table for WMDs and all the elite reporters laughing, Karl Rove and Rumsfeld laughing and all the elite reporters laughing with them. Remember them!
There’s always broken souls and crazy men raging in bare rooms, and women who wake up screaming, and children alone in the dark, listening.
Names and dates of birth on tombstones and monuments, and a mother who remembers every birthday, soldiers buried in consecrated ground and others unburied in jungles and wastelands. This was the father who would have given the bride away. This was the brother who would have been the best man.
No war ever ends.
For anyone who believes in omens, America’s supreme civic festival is an obvious place to look for them, and what did we see at Super Bowl XLVI?
We saw a fat and clumsy former super-star fall on her ass in the middle of halftime festivities, and then…
The most grotesque winning touchdown in the history of football!
Squat on the goal-line, Ahmad! Then fall slowly backward on your ass!
Hurrah!
Super Bowl XLVI is over, and it’s maybe a minute to midnight in our dying Republic!
What’s your excuse for
so much ridiculous
screaming and thrashing?
I fell off a boat in 1987
and for the first
ten years
I thought I was drowning.