i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

A thing can be simple and a thing can be beautiful. It doesn’t need to be different things, but it is not always the same thing. This poem proves one or the other of those.


“I promised you 25% of the profit after expenses.”

Obviously after expenses, Star Trek character – that’s how you know you’ve arrived at PROFIT.

On myself. Sort of.

Commercial Wisdom

This is a two-pointer.

They say the iPhone has an app for everything. I want an app that lets me search for restaurants by location, by hours open. Seriously, there are not many places open on Sunday nights.

I can’t stop being charmed by the man in the McDonald’s non-pretentious coffee commercial green shirt who says about his glasses, “I do need mine; they’re very real.” Or maybe I’m just charmed by that line, or the delivery.

Let The Right One In.

No way I could have watched this myself, but I'm glad to have seen it.

Nightmares become dreams?

Always let in like souls.

Tap out "kiss" to me.

Gringo’s Delight

I hear tell of a restaurant in Atlanta, a Mexican restaurant with a burger on the menu called Gringo’s Delight.

I want to eat this burger, even if it is just a normal burger. Or, if you’re a 30Rocker*, “I want to go to there.”

*30Rockster? 30Rockstar? A bit too flattering, that last one.

Small Happy Bouquet

A number of small, lovely items from a few weeks ago:

1) Back to the crackling warmth, facing out over the Eastern seaboard with my friend on my right. I see our bonfire shadows on fog. It’s so thick and gray, it’s a staggered, deep, misty canvas. I flap my arms like a bird. Not a graceful bird or a majestic bird. More like a turkey or a flustered, overweight penguin. My friend sees that I’m flapping and smiling. He starts to ask what I’m doing, but before he finished his question, he’s looked up and realized. He begins to do a macro-Vogue, full- and half-arms framing a torso rather than hands around face. We’re warm and we’re flailing and we are simultaneously become shadow puppets and puppeteers.

2) Squelching boots in red mud, I assume. It’s too dark to tell and we have to leave the warm, well-lit farm house, but there’s no reason to think it’s not the same red mud we slogged up through. Friend is holding a big black umbrella against a big black night sky. New moon. I hold a plastic superhero-paneled bowl holding leftovers of probably the best chicken salad-type dish that has been brought to a potluck, but maybe Friend holds it. Somehow, I light our way with two miniature plastic flashlights¬† supplied by the farm house denizens, considerate. Also, pink and blue on rainbow-colored lanyards, like twinned but independent headlights as we two walk on our four feet back to the car in the dark.

3) I reach up my arms and stretch out my fingers and they touch the ceiling. I am wearing only moderate boots. I am giddy. My arms come down so I can clap in reactionary glee. It is as happy as when I saw the fried chicken for eating.