You're all familiar with my red couch - there's two of em - from Gamburg's in Hatboro, PA.
I mentioned the Red Couch when I was talking to fellow therapist Judy D last night who lives in Niwot, CO, where all the women wear dangling earrings and have cats.
Oh, she said, when Hunter died he was on his red couch and fell off. His daughter found him dead on the floor.
What? I said. Hunter died?
She'd never told me.
This is what happens in long-distance relationships.
And this is what happens with the aging foot
Truthfully? It feels like it's gonna explode. The left foot. Very painful to walk on. Will have to write an Ode to Painful Foot.
My daughter Sarah told me to read a book on hemorrhoids by a crime fiction writer. It was to teach me how to write about pain and have others feel your pain.
Well, just imagine your own foot is filled with tiny pebbles that will explode in 20 minutes, which is when you're gonna stand up.
Gave me the opportunity to write a couple of new non-fictions and a poem about Inspector Morse and Nilla Wafers.
Thing is, I did not know that yesterday was the deadline for the Autumn issue.
My tush was killing me, even tho it has its own insulating material made with adipose tissue.
THE CHEESE OMELET OF JACKSON POLLOCK
Pollock's okay
but I much prefer
staring at my
omelet and making
of it a thing of
beauty
I will not burden you by
saying what the co-chair
of my master's program
said. All modern art
is psychotic.
Look at the translucent
zucchin! Shining like
the crescent moon.
Or the scissors-cut-up
baby spinach stiched inside
like a patchwork quilt
Nearing the finish
the baby bella shrooms
twinge like a cochlear
implant
The phone rings now
I pretend not to hear it
the last taste in my
mouth is the flavor
of your kiss.
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