Post Partum

Life returns in increments. First you get some sleep, then you eat, drink some fruit juice, only walk the pathways of desire, several espressos, eventually you can function. Putting books away, for me, is problematic, I always pull out another book and the end result is that my desk is covered with open books. I can't even see the keyboard, might even subscribe, if I could, but I can't find my reading glasses. Nine ways from Sunday. The devil, in fact, the long arm of the law. Not that anything means something, we're clear on that, the uncertainty, right? Another rendition. Songs sung from the back seat, on long trips. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. The number of telephone poles between Jacksonville, Florida, and Jacksonville, North Carolina. Hole in the roof, rain falling on my head. The answer is blowing in the wind. Life is just a joke. You just stood there, grinning. Buffalo soldier. Who was that? The Persuasions. That bass singer on "The River Jordan", Jimmy Hayes, could do a vocal version of the Cello Suites. Everyone knew her as Nancy. Rocky's revival. Gideon's bible. May he rest in peace. U2, I still have a vow. What I'm looking for. The wind is blowing, the brittle leaves are rattling. Gypsy woman. Waiting for the rising sun. She was a gypsy woman, looking for a chorus. People are curious and times are strange. Things have changed. I used to care. Now I just listen, FM radio, late at might, they can either help or they can go to hell. That sparkle in her eyes looks like champagne. What I remember may not have happened. I was sick of the word 'closure' before today, but after listening to the radio for a bit I'm absolutely rabid. As McCord said somewhere, get some duct tape. Look at Braque's "Violin with Pitcher", what the hell is that damned nail doing at the top? I'm in love with Paula Poundstone, there, I've said it. Her comic sense and her timing roll me on the floor. I always catch her at ten or eleven of a weekend morning, on "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" (however they punctuate that) and I'm usually eating a brunch that involves either corn meal or grits, and I could well die, choking on some off-beat comment she made. I don't consider myself a critic, having opinions, all that, but I've handled a lot of stuff, in however many years I've been here, and one, you know, develops certain tastes. Directions. Maybe it can't be helped. Maybe it's a mistake to reveal too much of yourself. Might create problems down the road. In passport photos, you should appear as generic as possible. Figure it out yourself.