Sometimes I think of the sweetest, kindest waters to the face's corners as they meet, say, ancient, worked, twirled, and twisted, twined -- for God, karma, and ant forefoot's sake, all -- to become in one non-magical wash, The Shade.
If I take a few days, it's nice not to have to explain all that.
When Joe Cocker died, I'm sure you barely recall my visceral cry, meaning: "Damn it, I never got to writhe with him and do the inexplicable struggle to turn out the light and impart only his meaning to the rocking mic, his roll to the music," and so it was this, from the gut, lazy,
no. no. no!
I sat and stared at the NYTimes Breaking News Alert about the death of Günter Grass, possibly thinking from, of, and in my favorite depth: nothing.
|BREAKING NEWS ALERT
|No, I'm thinking of us, |
huddled in a field.
|"Sotheby’s Offering a Rothko Once Owned by Bunny Mellon"|