Am listening to Sergei Prokofiev's First String Quartet on YouTube.
So, I sent off THE BIG SPOON for final approval to a couple of my readers. It's about an obese woman trying to battle her eating addiction.
And, NO, it is not about me.
As I walked around the block this morning, the words Ah, fecund fecund world came to me
What kind of mind thinks up something like that?
Ah, fecund fecund world
I have just been out there
doing the fox trot round
the block, then planning
my visit with the man
from Sam's Club
Will he show and where
will I put him? What
will he bring? A Mason
Pearson hair brush for
my sister? Reams of
paper for me. And a
hat box full of - no, not of
creamy chocolates - but of
bird feathers, we do so
love our reds and blues
and yellers - and pop in
there, Mr Sam's Club, a
nice snakeskin for grandson
Max, a gift from his sandled
Dad used to work at Majestic Specialties Inc in Cleveland. The 'boys' would send messages to one another... at the top it says Jersey City, Cleveland or New York. Later they'd have other branches.
These were very smart people. As I said at Mom's, where I was eating a salad I had brot, they could have been in Hollywood, discovering new talent and making movies.
Reminds me that last night I watched a docu about Marilyn Monroe, who was addicted to a number of pills, barbituates. And all her husbands, including the great playwright Arthur Miller, would follow her lead when she appeared before the photographers and would stand there and smile and wave.
The doc was a conspiracy theory that she was murdered by the Kennedys and others. She actually believed RFK was gonna divorce Ethel and marry her.
OH, the Sam's Club man just came. I re-sked the visit for Monday. Had told him I'm leaving home at 1:30, which I am..... the movie Son of Saul at the library.
My car doors are wide open waiting to take me in and not suffocate me with heat.
WALKING SCOTT TO THE TRAIN STATION
He's a fast walker in his steel-tip boots
and backpack carrying the dinner he'll eat
at 2 am. I keep up with him, walking eight
steps behind like the Indian women from Punjab
Davisville Road darkens. A chip of a
moon follows us on the left, so high
my neck cracked when I looked up at it
the same moon I watched from the Country
Squire back in Cleveland, Dad at
the wheel, cigarette dangling
Catastrophes as yet unknown, his death,
my kidney transplant, massacres of the
innocents we watch on huge living room
TVs while snacking on Doritos, our lips
burn with salt
A ramp is being constructed. Smell the
wood! But why? Whose legs have given
out? Oh, let us mourn for that pair
of legs - did diabetes have its way
with them - that damn autoimmunce disease?
I will sit with you a while, I say, until
the train comes. A squirrel scampers from
the trash can, as Scott and I touch knees
and talk about all the things we'll do
on his next vacation, as the train whistles
on down the line.