Meaning of Life # 27
“Words and eggs must be handled with care.”
Coffee drunk, vodka drunk, vitamin taken, and the children still curled like question marks in their beds, she meets a dog who comes to her door at six in the morning. The dog compliments her flowering shrubs, the tidy doormat; then says, “In this envelope is written your death-day. Like your birthday, only different. Would you like me to open it?” She feels the sun on her skin, tilts her head over shimmering rooftops, to the clouds: tungsten and pink and fanning out, a cheekbone’s blush. She shuts the door and returns to the kitchen to write a poem. She does this by planting potatoes in the coffee pot. She adds onion bulbs. The onions irritate the potatoes’ eyes; and words spring forth: spatula, mirror, blue dress, sky.
Meaning of Life # 22
Guardedly, but not too. Allow yourself Tuesdays, to be sob-shaken. If, during full sunlight, you see a fruit bat or raccoon, avoid. Follow the news, though never daily. Same with microbrews. A war rages, against imagination. Covert tattoos. Dogs crossing freeways. Thick air, clouds as ribs, ribcages. Honeycomb. The way bees construct perfect octagons. No straightedge, no ruler. Be careful the sting; the snares you set. Striking, a term for beauty, protest, cluster bombs, or curveball lunge. Exercise often. Your heart and mind. Your ability to recognize: none of this is practice. Take long walks, but never within shopping malls. If you must leap, do so. Dive. Surface. Breathe. Think high and far. On the other hand…Listen: if you act on secret desire, or do not—you will embrace regret. But try to be kind. To live as Ghandi or Jesus. MLK, RFK, JFK. Or John Lennon. And you will be shot down in the streets. Life is hard. So beware three things: numbers, and words.