You really do have such beautiful things to write about. You write about experience and love and the inbetweens of boiling water. You speak simply like a photograph, of the perpetuation of beauty and tell stories of egyptian mythology. About rolling joints in underwear, rubbing the stickyness off on old newspaper corners coffee stained, grafittied with sketches of eyes and of our noses, touching their noses. And of our ears, who hear nothing but the deep buzzing of air and cells and atoms fluttering together. Frank Sinatra goes about his day, whispering songs like a silouette in the background while you make love like a poet. Only that doesn’t happen. Because only you can write those lines.
Saturday, January 24, 2009