Sunday, January 29, 2012

the juggler

Five ball extraordinaire
no sharp knives no smoking torches
no fishnet flammable stockings, Love
no small terrified animals
fine print local code

Boomerang orbits beyond footlights
exit ticket booth trajectory
pigeon feather return
scalping tall pinze-nez men
fainting ladies hand to breast

The Times review!
birdcage trapdoor Arts section
yawning soggy cereal one inch column
third row tomato critic

oil on canvas: Red Spot II (1921)
~Wassily Kandinsky (1896-1944)

Friday, January 27, 2012

haiku heart cure

Moon and Venus dance
Tango medicine prescribed
Spiritual night cure

for Rebecca...get well soon, Love!

Five steps North, seven bread crumbs West, then five swift paces Southwest leads you to 'recuerda mi corazon,' exclusive home of
Haiku My Heart

photo of Moon and Venus
by Tavi Greiner 1-24-12

Sunday, January 22, 2012


'Coffee', he said, and somewhat relieved, face relaxed and shoulders hunched, she dropped the pad and pencil down into the over-sized pouch of her peach apron. She brought the saucer and cup, and only then did she pour the beautiful hot liquid. He leaned in, inhaling close to capture her dark scent. And she leaned back against the chrome counter, closed her eyes briefly, then opened them to watch the cup.
Three cubes of sugar. More cream than usual. Then some more when he followed her eyes. He looked down as she raised hers to his.
He smiled, and his face warmed as he turned the cup.
'Just like my women - sweet, pale,' and blowing across the top of the cup,'and lukewarm.'

From Boris Hoppek's Tokyo exhibit "Ever"

Magpie 101 class meets on Sundays. Bring two pencils.

Monday, January 16, 2012

deep blue shoes

Stone with marble-laced shoestrings
chocked loafers no faithful dog could bring
annoying leg discomfort symptom to bear
a bit less bothersome than gasping for air

sculpture by Jason deCaires Taylor

Friday, January 13, 2012

Heavens to Haiku

Ancient catacomb
Mimosa scented passage
Knock softly, enter

photo courtesy: r.b.

Five steps North, seven bread crumbs West, then five swift paces Southwest leads you to 'recuerda mi corazon,' exclusive home of
Haiku My Heart

Sunday, January 8, 2012

you are precisely my cup of tea

She stopped the cup at her lips.
'No', she laughed quietly under her breath, 'that's not Silent Cal'.
'Could be. He's not doing anything'.
She sipped. 'Statues aren't suppose to do anything'.
'That's my whole point. Have at'm pigeons'!
She smiled. That's what I wanted. Her smile, even lovlier than her eyes, fooling no one sitting opposite, the clean blue and white oil-clothed tea room table with generous street view, her face shadowed by a light blue ball cap that could not hide that she was definitely not a boy, over-sized gray t with black curve-revealing leggings darting out a black short skirt, and orange slip-on leather shoes.
'Why so stern'? she mused, small ring-less delicate hands turning her tea cup, red-lipped profile in the light now, looking up at the infamous Broadway poster across the street.
'Maybe he's not found true love', I said, carefully watching her face, hopeful. She looked at me quick, then down into her cup.
'Is it half full or half empty?' I asked barely audible, my mouth dry, longing for hers.
She twisted her mouth and closed one eye, schoolgirl now, pretending to rack her brain. I interrupted before she could answer.
'By the way - orange shoes'?
She spun in her chair and gave a precision Rockette kick, hat flying off to expose disheveled fair hair, slim waist exposed, her toe seemingly coming inches from the ceiling. Everyone in the joint applauded appreciatively, similar to an enthusiastic audience relieved at the conclusion of a three hour lecture on embalming.
'I love you.' My whole body seemed numb, helpless, as in a dream.
Her chest heaved, eyes sparkling and she glowed. 'I'm hungry.'

photo: Lee Friedlander

'Getting to know you,
Putting it my way,
But nicely,
You are precisely,
My cup of tea.'
~Oscar Hammerstein,
Getting To Know You

Eve Arnold 1912-2012

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

capture and release

She summer drifted around the bend of the narrow river in a waterlogged rowboat at white cloud speed, ponderous as a slow winter sleigh ride, peered over starboard as she hoisted the brown paper sack of old love letters secured with black shoestring, pausing briefly to admire her reflection donning a floppy lake hat, smiling, then shoving it over the side, following its tumbling descent weighted by an unforgiving heart.
She sprawled back, laughing for no one to hear except a startled doe hidden amongst the trees, the toes of her right foot over the side creating cold foamy ripples against the current. Her eyelids became heavy and she slept, a wind gust overturning her hat and rippling her ginger hair. In the buoyant mist ahead she dreamed of her new lover. He could not spell her name, but oh could he kiss, and he loved to fish.

Marina Moevs, 2005

Sunday, January 1, 2012

If you really want to hear about it...

JD would've been 93 today.
Supposedly there are 15 more novels hidden somewhere.
11,041 vagabonds plus:
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