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Once there came a man Who said: “Range me all men of the world in rows.” And instantly There was a terrific clamor among the people Against being ranged in rows. There was a loud quarrel, world-wide. It endured for ages; And blood was shed By those who would not stand in rows, And by those who pined to stand in rows. Eventually, the man went to death, weeping. And those who stayed in the bloody scuffle Knew not the great simplicity.

Once upon a time, There was a beautiful shark. She combed her long, blonde hair, And it made the halibut bark. It made the chicken oink, And the whale to run for Congress. A man should never obstruct The course of material progress. Yet a lamb cannot but weep When the kiddies come home from college. For they have forgotten to keep The agreement they made to acknowledge The woodpecker’s right to peck, And the maple’s to be pecked at. Let’s have a little respect For Rubber Duck with a doctorate. That provocative way of standing! All elbows and bangles And hips just like a coat hanger And ankles at right angles! I like The shape of the pouring soy milk, The sound of the splitting log. But Egret finds it regrettable that her Sister is dating a dog. Don’t listen to ’em, kid! And don’t listen to their questions. This corporation’s been ruined by Well-meaning false confessions. And the world is fast a-melting, Though I would have it slow. And I don’t think it’s helping: The way these animals go Straight from hatchery to quackery, And, if only to amuse, I’ll throw my hat in with Mike Thataway in Black patent leather shoes. Maybe I’m just like my mother. She’s never satisfied. Maybe I’m just like my father: Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Maybe I’m just like my cat: Licking invisible balls. Perhaps you’ll reflect upon that, Next time you’re screening your calls. And all the solvent and the solute, They were walking hand in hand. This the Indian poets were the First to understand. The ancient Indian poets Had their heads screwed on straight. Fixed on the body’s affluence And the effluents that escape. And the influence they enjoyed? Close-focus hocus-pocus. And every gezunte moyd In a juvenile honey locust Will prefer their Hindi distichs To the Indiana Hoosiers. We’re gonna be there from Spit Christmas All the way to Mucus New Year’s. But for now I draw the curtain And settle into Lent. Last person to go to Harvard Without knowing what that meant.

Once we played at love together— Played it smartly, if you please; Lightly, as a windblown feather, Did we stake a heart apiece. Oh, it was delicious fooling! In the hottest of the game, Without thought of future cooling, All too quickly burned Life’s flame. In this give-and-take of glances, Kisses sweet as honey dews, When we played with equal chances, Did you win, or did I lose?

At supper time an ondine’s narrow feet made dark tracks on the hearth. Like the heart of a yellow fruit was the fire’s heat, but they rubbed together quite blue with the cold. The sandy hem of her skirt dripped on the floor. She sat there with a silvered cedar knot for a low stool; and I sat opposite, my lips and eyelids hot in the heat of the fire. Piling on dry bark, seeing that no steam went up from her dark dress, I felt uneasiness as though firm sand had shifted under my feet in the wash of a wave. I brought her soup from the stove and she would not eat, but sat there crying her cold tears, her blue lips quivering with cold and grief. She blamed me for a thief, saying that I had burned a piece of wood the tide washed up. And I said, No, the tide had washed it out again; and even so, a piece of sodden wood was not so rare as polished agate stones or ambergris. She stood and wrung her hair so that the water made a sudden splash on the round rug by the door. I saw her go across the little footbridge to the beach. After, I threw the knot on the hot coals. It fell apart and burned with a white flash, a crackling roar in the chimney and dark smoke. I beat it out with a poker in the soft ash. Now I am frightened on the shore at night, and all the phosphorescent swells that rise come towards me with the threat of her dark eyes with a cold firelight in them; and crooked driftwood writhes in dry sand when I pass. Should she return and bring her sisters with her, the withdrawing tide would leave a long pool in my bed. There would be nothing more of me this side the melting foamline of the latest wave.

You tell me a joke about two robbers who hide from the police. One robber hides as a sack of cats and the other robber hides as a sack of potatoes. That is the punch line somehow, the sack of potatoes, but all I can think about is how my dad used to throw me over his shoulder when I was very small and call me his sack of potatoes.I’ve got a sack of potatoes he would yell, spinning around in a circle, the arm not holding me reaching out for a sale.Does anyone want to buy my sack of potatoes? No one ever wanted to buy me. We were always the only two people in the room.

You tell me a joke about two robbers who hide from the police. One robber hides as a sack of cats and the other robber hides as a sack of potatoes. That is the punch line somehow, the sack of potatoes, but all I can think about is how my dad used to throw me over his shoulder when I was very small and call me his sack of potatoes.I've got a sack of potatoes he would yell, spinning around in a circle, the arm not holding me reaching out for a sale.Does anyone want to buy my sack of potatoes? No one ever wanted to buy me. We were always the only two people in the room.

A woman stepped outside, crumbled into a loose particulate, and, as the breeze blew up from the east, she scattered: her handful of heart, volcanic ash, spiraled the highway, and five of her teeth slipped between her neighbor's breasts; her neighbor unbuttoned her blouse to scratch at her suddenly red and luminous skin. Days passed. Each day the sun distractedly drifted from chair to chair; each night the stars, old scatterbrains, they commiserated. It didn't rain.Strange, the granular woman thought to herself:although I encompass so much, I accomplish so little. Her car sparkled with her hair and bones; her garden thrived. She tried to think: why did this happen? what had I eaten? why was I bothered?—those old hours, spotted and exotic lizards, darted the gravel, flicking through their colors of skin as one flicks channels on a tv. She couldn't catch a one. Then, as a flock of sparrows converging for the skull of an oak, all her twittering dust, her brain, bone, and the dangerous shreds of her fingers clawed for the sky; what an interesting cloud someone said.

At San Raffaele Arcangelo One angel got it all wrong. She plopped into this sad century feet first in her dark clothes. There wasn't much water that winter—just a few puddles really— to break her fall. Mud-splattered, she rose and shook like a canine. It didn't take long to see her soaked wings as a backdrop to all the nonmagic to which we were accustomed, or to see what passed for history as a forgetting of sorts. (Was that one or two wars?) Strange how, as she limped down a dim vicolo , some willful disc hovered above her more florid than a sky—how the putrid puddles with their last reflections could neither correct nor register that light.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Count heads. Count the men's. Count the women's. There are five main counts in the cell or work area. 4:45 first morning count. Inmate must stand for the count. The count takes as long as it takes. Control Center knows how many should be in what area. No one moves from area A to area B without Control knowing. If i/m is stuck out for the count i/m receives a write-up. Three write-ups, and i/m goes to lockdown. Once in lockdown, you will relinquish your things:                         plastic soapdish, jar of vaseline, comb or hairpick, paperback                                 Upon return to your unit the inventory officer will return your things:                                 soapdish, vaseline, comb, hairpick, paperback                                 Upon release you may have your possessions:                                 soapdish, vaseline, comb, pick, book                         Whereupon your True Happiness can begin In the Mansion of Happiness: Whoever possesses CRUELTY Must be sent back to JUSTICE Whoever gets into IDLENESS Must come to POVERTY Whoever becomes a SABBATHBREAKER Must be taken to the Pillory and there remain until he loses 2 turns