Either I am (1) in the room, or
(2) out of the room with no
thoughts of rooms, or (3) out of
the room with thoughts of being
in the room. The mind produces
that wonderful third thing
for which we have no name.
In my later years, in my
years of gray hair
and pleated pants, I am going
to try to discover whatever
bond there is between thinking
and feeling. It will be
a limpid enterprise: pure,
sincere, and without beauty.
Preachers’ children will come
to know other preachers’ children.
Trees will come to know
other trees. We will accept
good soup for what it is:
good soup, not bad soup.
What did Brecht know about
poetry? A lot. What did
Rilke know about poetry?
A lot. The path is narrow,
but the path is long. The streets
are empty, but the streets are clean.
Does your mind jump from
one thought to another? Mine does.
What is poetry if not this leaping
through the water levels of the mind?
This sad, sad story of the heart?
Smarty Pants is what my mother
used to call me. My father
called me Sad Sack. I stayed
in the sack until I was
good and ready to get out.
That was Saturdays. Sundays
I hit home runs. Fridays
I didn’t eat meat. Jesus
loved little children. I had
a one-eyed dog and a cat
with a crooked tail. I had
a BB gun that found its mark
in tin cans. A neighbor came over
one night. She held in her arms
a dead dog with a hole
in its head. She said, did you
do this, and I said no, not me.
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