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When you hate the world the world hates you what if you try lo love it?

Mickey my cat is so sweet Mickey my cat waits patienly Mickey my cat always ready to be hugged... when he decides it

I woke from a bird hitting the window, almost, I thought, hard enough to break it. The sun rose knowingly. I slid the sash up and stuck my head out like someone in an Italian movie. A flicker lay on its back—stunned—but it was blinking steady as a railroad crossing. Was there misery to put out? Would it come to its "senses"? I thought where were you when bark beetles killed half my trees? Then I remembered, sleepily, reading that flickers mostly eat ants. I went back to sleep for half an hour, and dreamed, as I often do, of horses. When next I looked, the bird still lay still, still blinking. Maybe, I thought, it can't roll over. So I went down and rolled it over. Terrified by my touch, it came to life and flop- hopped down the hill into some sagebrush. It didn't fly, but it didn't seem broken, either. I tried to find it later. No luck. Whether it lived and flew off, or died thrust into a bush, was, apparently, none of my business. If it were thrust into a bush, I knew the ants wouldn't wait for the guest of honor to start dinner.

Without the manifest necessity of a paint-laden brush, the motion traced by the painter's hand would mimic that moth's fragile desperation against the glass as it seeks escape into the already painted sunset. It drops to the sill periodically the way the painter's hand would drop to the palette. Then it sputters back up erratically and zigzags to indicate the horizontal nature of sunsets. On the other side of the glass, free to the air, a nighthawk enacts the same erratic striving, up and up and down and sideways then up again and falteringly up until it drops, wings folded, suicidally earthward. It spreads its wings just above the ground for the life- saving aerialist's breathtaking swoop. Air through feathers (they call it drumming) hums like a wind harp or tissue paper on a comb. The nighthawk flies like that, erratic as a bat, because that's how moths fly, and that's what nighthawks eat and what they feed their fledglings. Nighthawks build no nests but lay their eggs on bare ground. Their camouflage is so perfect you can find them only by accident. If you are out walking and the mother flies up, pulling that clichéd broken-wing trick, and you mark the spot she rose from, you can find the eggs . If you go back after they hatch, you can look right at them and think they aren't there—just some small chunks of wood. So I'm watching this nighthawk and the moth on the glass in their painterly struggles that mirror each other as the sunset reclines, aloof. This is the only moth I've seen this rainless summer. The only nighthawk too. So I open the window and give them both what they want.

Not the peace of a cease-fire, not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb, but rather as in the heart when the excitement is over and you can talk only about a great weariness. I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult. And my son plays with a toy gun that knows how to open and close its eyes and say Mama. A peace without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares, without words, without the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be light, floating, like lazy white foam. A little rest for the wounds— who speaks of healing? (And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation to the next, as in a relay race: the baton never falls.) Let it come like wildflowers, suddenly, because the field must have it: wildpeace.

Small red tin box sealed in shrink-wrap, cut open with pocketknife, pried apart, its goods aerate the office. I pluck white sliced chalky cylinders; let them simmer in my mouth. I exhale peppermint scent through my nose. Cut open the official letter. A map in letters on a white page. My teeth grind mints. Photocopies slightly off alignment, I blur lines. Equations disperse family through land documents, position each generation. I am only fourth in line. Some plots are gumbo after winter thaw. Sections stitched together with extended relatives. This ritual, personal death papers drafted. I am partial to this grassland; the place of deer marks and porcupine quills, ledger extrapolates history. I refold estate document, place it back into its envelope.

In English we place a noun meaning fixed purpose before our verbs to create the future tense. Here, in the private life my team invents, I’m in a floodlit kitchen like the set of an old-time ad for Tide and I am chopping something. Isn’t this the past perfect? Should I feel nostalgic? This corn is highly leveraged and I’m wearing a pink slip.

The time is come I must departe from thee, ah, famous Citie: I never yet, to rue my smart, did finde that thou hadst pitie, Wherefore small cause ther is, that I should greeve from thee to go: But many Women foolyshly, lyke me, and other moe. Doe such a fyxed fancy set, on those which least desarve, That long it is ere wit we get, away from them to swarve, But tyme with pittie oft wyl tel to those that wil her try: Whether it best be more to mell, or vtterly defye. And now hath time me put in mind, of thy great cruelnes: That never once a help wold finde, to ease me in distres. Thou never yet woldst credit geve to boord me for a yeare: Nor with Apparell me releve except thou payed weare. No, no, thou never didst me good, nor ever wilt, I know: Yet am I in no angry moode, but wyll, or ere I goe, In perfect love and charytie my Testament here write: And leave to thee such Treasurye, as I in it recyte. Now stand a side and geve me leave to write my latest Wyll: And see that none you do deceave, of that I leave them tyl. I whole in body, and in minde, but very weake in Purse: Doo make, and write my Testament for feare it wyll be wurse. And fyrst I wholy doo commend, my Soule and Body eke: To God the Father and the Son, so long as I can speake. And after speach: my Soule to hym, and Body to the Grave: Tyll time that all shall rise agayne, their Judgement for to have. And then I hope they both shal meete. to dwell for aye in ioye: Whereas I trust to see my Friends releast, from all annoy. Thus have you heard touching my soule, and body what I meane: I trust you all wyll witnes beare, I have a stedfast brayne. And now let mee dispose such things, as I shal leave behinde: That those which shall receave the same, may know my wylling minde. I firste of all to London leave because I there was bred: Braue buildyngs rare, of Churches store, and Pauls to the head. Betweene the same: fayre streats there bee, and people goodly store: Because their keeping craveth cost, I yet wil leave him more. First for their foode, I Butchers leave, that every day shall kyll: By Thames you shal have Brewers store, and Bakers at your wyll. And such as orders doo obserue, and eat fish thrice a weeke: I leave two Streets, full fraught therwith, they neede not farre to seeke. Watlyng Streete, and Canwyck streete, I full of Wollen leave: And Linnen store in Friday streete, if they mee not deceave. And those which are of callyng such, that costlier they require: I Mercers leave, with silke so rich, as any would desyre. In Cheape of them, they store shal finde and likewise in that streete: I Goldsmithes leave, with Iuels such, as are for Ladies meete. And Plate to furnysh Cubbards with, full braue there shall you finde: With Purle of Siluer and of Golde, to satisfye your minde. With Hoods, Bungraces, Hats or Caps, such store are in that streete: As if on ton side you should misse the tother serues you feete. For Nets of every kynd of sort, I leave within the pawne: French Ruffes, high Purles, Gorgets and Sleeves of any kind of Lawne. For Purse or Kniues, for Combe or Glasse, or any needeful knacke I by the Stoks have left a Boy, wil aske you what you lack. I Hose doo leave in Birchin Lane, of any kynd of syse: For Women stitchte, for men both Trunks and those of Gascoyne gise. Bootes, Shoes or Pantables good store, Saint Martins hath for you: In Cornwall, there I leave you Beds, and all that longs thereto. For Women shall you Taylors have, by Bow, the chiefest dwel: In every Lane you some shall finde, can doo indifferent well. And for the men, few Streetes or Lanes, but Bodymakers bee: And such as make the sweeping Cloakes, with Gardes beneth the Knee. Artyllery at Temple Bar, and Dagges at Tower hyll: Swords and Bucklers of the best, are nye the Fleete vntyll. Now when thy Folke are fed and clad with such as I have namde: For daynty mouthes, and stomacks weake some Iunckets must be framde. Wherfore I Poticaries leave, with Banquets in their Shop: Phisicians also for the sicke, Diseases for to stop. Some Roysters styll, must bide in thee, and such as cut it out: That with the guiltlesse quarel wyl, to let their blood about. For them I cunning Surgions leave, some Playsters to apply. That Ruffians may not styll be hangde, nor quiet persons dye. For Salt, Otemeale, Candles, Sope, or what you els doo want: In many places, Shops are full, I left you nothing scant. Yf they that keepe what I you leave, aske Mony: when they sell it: At Mint, there is such store, it is vnpossible to tell it. At Stiliarde store of Wines there bee, your dulled mindes to glad: And handsome men, that must not wed except they leave their trade. They oft shal seeke for proper Gyrles, and some perhaps shall fynde: (That neede compels, or lucre lures to satisfye their mind.) And neare the same, I houses leave, for people to repayre: To bathe themselues, so to preuent infection of the ayre. On Saturdayes I wish that those, which all the weeke doo drug: Shall thyther trudge, to trim them vp on Sondayes to looke smug. Yf any other thing be lackt in thee, I wysh them looke: For there it is: I little brought but nothyng from thee tooke. Now for the people in thee left, I have done as I may: And that the poore, when I am gone, have cause for me to pray. I wyll to prisons portions leave, what though but very small: Yet that they may remember me, occasion be it shall: And fyrst the Counter they shal have, least they should go to wrack: Some Coggers, and some honest men, that Sergantes draw a back. And such as Friends wyl not them bayle, whose coyne is very thin: For them I leave a certayne hole, and little ease within. The Newgate once a Monthe shal have a sessions for his share: Least being heapt, Infection might procure a further care. And at those sessions some shal skape, with burning nere the Thumb: And afterward to beg their fees, tyll they have got the some. And such whose deedes deserueth death, and twelue have found the same: They shall be drawne vp Holborne hill, to come to further shame: Well, yet to such I leave a Nag shal soone their sorowes cease: For he shal either breake their necks or gallop from the preace. The Fleete, not in their circuit is, yet if I geve him nought: It might procure his curse, ere I unto the ground be brought. Wherfore I leave some Papist olde to vnder prop his roofe: And to the poore within the same, a Boxe for their behoofe. What makes you standers by to smile. and laugh so in your sleeve: I thinke it is, because that I to Ludgate nothing geve. I am not now in case to lye, here is no place of iest: I dyd reserve, that for my selfe, yf I my health possest. And ever came in credit so a debtor for to bee. When dayes of paiment did approch, I thither ment to flee. To shroude my selfe amongst the rest, that chuse to dye in debt: Rather then any Creditor, should money from them get. Yet cause I feele my selfe so weake that none mee credit dare: I heere reuoke: and doo it leave, some Banckrupts to his share. To all the Bookebinders by Paulles because I lyke their Arte: They e'ry weeke shal mony have, when they from Bookes departe. Amongst them all, my Printer must, have somwhat to his share: I wyll my Friends these Bookes to bye of him, with other ware. For Maydens poore, I Widdoers ritch, do leave, that oft shall dote: And by that meanes shal mary them, to set the Girles aflote. And wealthy Widdowes wil I leave, to help yong Gentylmen: Which when you have, in any case be courteous to them then: And see their Plate and Iewells eake may not be mard with rust. Nor let their Bags too long be full, for feare that they doo burst. To e'ry Gate vnder the walles, that compas thee about: I Fruit wives leave to entertayne such as come in and out. To Smithfeelde I must something leave my Parents there did dwell: So carelesse for to be of it, none wolde accompt it well. Wherfore it thrice a weeke shall have, of Horse and neat good store, And in his Spitle, blynd and lame, to dwell for evermore. And Bedlem must not be forgot, for that was oft my walke: I people there too many leave, that out of tune doo talke. At Bridewel there shal Bedelles be, and Matrones that shal styll See Chalke wel chopt, and spinning plyde, and turning of the Mill. For such as cannot quiet bee, but striue for House or Land: At Th' innes of Court, I Lawyers leave to take their cause in hand. And also leave I at ech Inne of Court, or Chauncerye: Of Gentylmen, a youthfull roote, full of Actiuytie: For whom I store of Bookes have left, at each Bookebinders stall: And parte of all that London hath to furnish them withall. And when they are with study cloyd: to recreate theyr minde: Of Tennis Courts, of dauncing Scooles, and fence they store shal finde. And every Sonday at the least, I leave to make them sport. In diuers places Players, that of wonders shall reporte. Now London have I (for thy sake) within thee, and without: As coms into my memory, dispearsed round about Such needfull thinges, as they should have heere left now unto thee: When I am gon, with consience, let them dispearced bee. And though I nothing named have, to bury mee withall: Consider that aboue the ground, annoyance bee I shall. And let me have a shrowding Sheete to couer mee from shame: And in obliuyon bury mee and never more mee name. Ringings nor other Ceremonies, vse you not for cost: Nor at my buriall, make no feast, your mony were but lost. Reioyce in God that I am gon, out of this vale so vile. And that of ech thing, left such store, as may your wants exile. I make thee sole executor, because I lou'de thee best. And thee I put in trust, to geve the goodes unto the rest. Because thou shalt a helper neede, In this so great a chardge, I wysh good Fortune, be thy guide, least thou shouldst run at lardge. The happy dayes and quiet times, they both her Seruants bee. Which well wyll serue to fetch and bring, such things as neede to thee. Wherfore (good London) not refuse, for helper her to take: Thus being weake and wery both an end heere wyll I make. To all that aske what end I made, and how I went away: Thou answer maist like those which heere, no longer tary may. And unto all that wysh mee well, or rue that I am gon: Doo me comend, and bid them cease my absence for to mone. And tell them further, if they wolde, my presence styll have had: They should have sought to mend my luck; which ever was too bad. So fare thou well a thousand times, God sheelde thee from thy foe: And styll make thee victorious, of those that seeke thy woe. And (though I am perswade) that I shall never more thee see: Yet to the last, I shal not cease to wish much good to thee. This, xx. of October I, in ANNO DOMINI: A Thousand: v. hundred seuenty three as Alminacks descry. Did write this Wyll with mine owne hand and it to London gaue: In witnes of the standers by, whose names yf you wyll have. Paper, Pen and Standish were: at that same present by: With Time, who promised to reveale, so fast as she could hye The same: least of my nearer kyn, for any thing should vary: So finally I make an end no longer can I tary.

Tired of walking and checking the lines of the tourist train that trundles through this town, famous for its pottery and brackish dune pools once visited by St. George and his dragon, and the lady with her unicorn, I stopped by at a convenient place to sit and shuck my sweet corn and let the local men hang their gates from my eyes. All they could offer were other versions of myself: soft and sweaty, sick of the big car diet dished up by Detroit and the cocktail-party and locker-room chatter I've had to tackle while touring this country's musky beaches. Choosing to drive to my next stop, I found perched upon a tall chalk cliff the statue of a broad-bodied chaser so large I could never easily handle him as a top. He'd been added on to so many times over the centuries, that it was only really possible to identify him by touch: a little more shy, perhaps, than other guys his age, an abstract clock-face jutting from the pack I could feel buckled around his waist, and such wee-wee nuts, he could only be named, I whispered,Patience. I camped there in his shadow 'til noon the next day, and drove away leaving a few of my burnt bones there, behind.

Will the children forgive the generation that’s trampled by horses of war, by exile and preparation for departure? Will they think of us as we were, a bunch of ambushes in ravines we’d shake our jealousy and carve trees into the earth's shirt to sit under, we, the factional fighters who’d shoo the clouds of war out of their vehicles and peer around our eternal siege or catch the dead like sudden fruit fallen on a wasteland? Will the children forgive what we were, some missile shepherds and masters of exile and frenzied celebration, whenever a neighboring war gestured to us we rose to set up in its braids a place good for love and residence? The bombing rarely took a rest the missile launchers rarely returned unharmed we rarely picked flowers for the dead or went on with our lives If only that summer had given us a bit of time's space before our mad departure Will they believe?