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The rooster pushes his head high among the hens, trying to be what he feels he must be, here in the confines of domesticity. Before the tall legs of my presence, he bristles and shakes his ruby comb. Little man, I want to say the hens know who they are. I want to ease his mistaken burden, want him to crow with the plain ecstasy of morning light as it finds its winter way above the woods. Poor outnumbered fellow, how did he come to believe that on his plumed shoulders lay the safety of an entire flock? I run my hand down the rippled brindle of his back, urge him to relax, drink in the female pleasures that surround him, of egg laying, of settling warm-breasted in the nest of this brief and feathered time.

More nice than wise. XI Mon. January [1733] hath xxxi days. Old Batchelor would have a Wife that’s wise, Fair, rich, and young, a Maiden for his Bed; Not proud, nor churlish, but of faultless size; A Country Houswife in the City bred. He’s a nice Fool, and long in vain hath staid; He should bespeak her, there’s none ready made. XII Mon. February hath xxviii days. N. N. of B---s County, pray don’t be angry with poor Richard. Each Age of Men new Fashions doth invent; Things which are old, young Men do not esteem: What pleas’d our Fathers, doth not us content; What flourish’d then, we out of fashion deem: And that’s the reason, as I understand, Why Prodigus did fell his Father’s Land. I Mon. March hath xxxi days. My Love and I for Kisses play’d, She would keep stakes, I was content, But when I won she would be paid; This made me ask her what she meant: Quoth she, since you are in this wrangling vein, Here take your Kisses, give me mine again. II Mon. April hath xxx days. Kind Katharine to her husband kiss’d these words, “ Mine own sweet Will, how dearly I love thee! If true (quoth Will) the World no such affords. And that its true I durst his warrant be; For ne’er heard I of Woman good or ill, But always loved best, her own sweet Will. III Mon. May hath xxxi days. Mirth pleaseth some, to others ’tis offence, Some commend plain conceit, some profound sense; Some wish a witty Jest, some dislike that, And most would have themselves they know not what. Then he that would please all, and himself too, Takes more in hand than he is like to do. IV Mon. June hath xxx days. Observe the daily circle of the sun, And the short year of each revolving moon: By them thou shalt foresee the following day, Nor shall a starry night thy hopes betray. When first the moon appears, if then she shrouds Her silver crescent, tip’d with sable clouds, Conclude she bodes a tempest on the main, And brews for fields impetuous floods of rain. V Mon. July hath xxxi days. Ev’n while the reaper fills his greedy hands, And binds the golden sheafs in brittle bands: Oft have I seen a sudden storm arise From all the warring winds that sweep the skies: And oft whole sheets descend of slucy rain, Suck’d by the spungy clouds from oft the main; The lofty skies at once come pouring down, The promis’d crop and golden labours drown. VI Mon. August hath xxxi days. For us thro’ 12 bright signs Apollo guides The year, and earth in sev’ral climes divides. Five girdles bind the skies, the torrid zone Glows with the passing and repassing sun. Far on the right and left, th’extreams of heav’n, To frosts and snows and bitter blasts are giv’n. Betwixt the midst and these, the Gods assign’d Two habitable seats for humane kind. VII Mon. September hath xxx days. Death is a Fisherman, the world we see His Fish-pond is, and we the Fishes be: His Net some general Sickness; howe’er he Is not so kind as other Fishers be; For if they take one of the smaller Fry, They throw him in again, he shall not die: But Death is sure to kill all he can get, And all is Fish with him that comes to Net. VIII Mon. October hath xxxi days. Time was my spouse and I could not agree, Striving about superiority: The text which saith that man and wife are one, Was the chief argument we stood upon: She held, they both one woman should become; I held they should be man, and both but one. Thus we contended daily, but the strife Could not be ended, till both were one Wife. IX Mon. November hath xxx days. My neighbour H—-y by his pleasing tongue, Hath won a Girl that’s rich, wise, fair and young, The Match (he saith) is half concluded, he Indeed is wondrous willing; but not she. And reason good, for he has run thro’all Almost the story of the Prodigal; Yet swears he never with the hogs did dine; That’s true, for none would trust him with their swine. X Mon. December hath xxxi days. She that will eat her breakfast in her bed, And spend the morn in dressing of her head, And sit at dinner like a maiden bride, And talk of nothing all day but of pride; God in his mercy may do much to save her, But what a case is he in that shall have her.

The poor are many and so— impossible to forget. No doubt, as day breaks, they see the buildings where they wish they could live with their children. They can steady the coffin of a constellation on their shoulders. They can wreck the air like furious birds, blocking out the sun. But not knowing these gifts, they enter and exit through mirrors of blood, walking and dying slowly. And so, one cannot forget them.

I have a friend who’s not well dressed. He wears no hat. He wears no vest. Upon his back he wears no shirt, so you can see there’s lots of dirt. He wears no shoes upon his feet. He wears no pants upon his seat. In fact, he doesn’t wear a stitch, so he can scratch if there’s an itch. I hope that you don’t find him rude— my dog is happy in the nude.

If a fairy should come from Babyland With a smile on his face and a wand in his hand, And say to me in his merry way, “I wish to hear what you have to say ’Bout being born all over again— Exactly where and exactly when And just what kind of a feller you’d like To have for your dad on this earthly hike,” I’d look at him and try to be As nonchalant and gay as he, And then I’d say, “If I must be Born again, it seems to me, It doesn’t matter much just where or when (For what’s a baby now and then?) But there’s one thing I must request So will you do your level best And kindly see that I shall drop Into the self-same arms of the self-same Pop? For, take it from me, he’s the very best dad That any baby’s ever had!”

Don't let me down. Don't not let the day drown. Face your waste of time. This is all. This is all you are. This is all you are allowed.

Popcorn-can cover screwed to the wall over a hole so the cold can’t mouse in

My Dear Khomeini: I read your fourteen thousand dollar ad asking me why the Vatican waited all of these years to send an envoy to complain about conditions in Iran You’re right, we should have sent one when the Shah was in power, look, I’m in total agreement with you Khomeini, that Christ, had he lived in Iran under the Shah, would have led the biggest damned revolt you ever saw Believe me, Khomeini, I knew about the Shah’s decadence, his extravagance his misdeeds, and how he lolled about in luxury with Iran’s loot I knew about the trail of jewels which led to his Dad’s capture but a fella has to eat and so when David Rockefeller asked me to do something how could I refuse? You can afford to be holier than thou What is it, 30 dollars per barrel these days? You must be bathing in oil While each day I suffer a new indignity You know that rock record they made me do? It’s 300 on the Charts which is about as low as you can get. And I guess you read where I had to call in all those Cardinals and for the first time reveal the Vatican budget? I had to just about get down on my hands and knees to get them to co-sign for a loan The Vatican jet has a mechanical problem and the Rolls-Royce needs a new engine The staff hasn’t been paid in months and the power company is threatening to turn off the candles To add to that, the building inspector has listed us as having 30,000 code violations I’m telling you, Khomeini, that so many people are leaving the church I have this nightmare where I wake up one day in Los Angeles and I’m the only one left Pretty soon we’ll be one of those cults you read about in the San Francisco Chronicle

Why do you shiver there Between the white river and the road? You are not cold, With the sun light dreaming about you; And yet you lift your pliant supplicating arms as though To draw clouds from the sky to hide your slenderness. You are a young girl Trembling in the throes of ecstatic modesty, A white objective girl Whose clothing has been forcibly taken away from her.

Oh. Sorry. Hello. Are you on your way to work, too? I was just taken aback by how you also have a briefcase, also small & brown. I was taken by how you seem, secretly, to love everything. Are you my new coworker? Oh. I see. No. Still, good to meet you. I’m trying out this thing where it’s good to meet people. Maybe, beyond briefcases, we have some things in common. I like jelly beans. I’m afraid of death. I’m afraid of farting, even around people I love. Do you think your mother loves you when you fart? Does your mother love you all the time? Have you ever doubted? I like that the street we’re on is named after a tree, when there are none, poplar or otherwise. I wonder if a tree has ever been named after a street, whether that worked out. If I were a street, I hope I’d get a good name, not Main or One-Way. One night I ran out of an apartment, down North Pleasant Street — it was soft & neighborly with pines & oaks, it felt too hopeful, after what happened. After my mother’s love became doubtful. After I told her I liked a boy & she wished I had never been born. After she said she was afraid of me, terrified I might infect my brothers with my abnormality. Sometimes, parents & children become the most common strangers. Eventually, a street appears where they can meet again. Or not. I’ve doubted my own love for my mother. I doubt. Do I have to forgive in order to love? Or do I have to love for forgiveness to even be possible? What do you think? I’m trying out this thing where questions about love & forgiveness are a form of work I’d rather not do alone. I’m trying to say, Let’s put our briefcases on our heads, in the sudden rain, & continue meeting as if we’ve just been given our names.