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"The Ethicist," Randy Cohen, The New York Times
Flight of the Conchords, Bret Mckenzie and Jemaine Clement
The Harvard Press: "Authors Off the Page"
IndieFeed: Indie Pop Music
KCRW's Bookworm, Film Reviews, Morning Becomes Eclectic, To the Point and Today's Top Tune
Animated Cartoons from The New Yorker
Fiction from The New Yorker
Wine Library TV

In the yard, flowering

Fair the flowers fell, crimped and cut.

Afternoons when the sun drooped lazy and its rays softened gold, she clipped roses in the yard. Though, she loved the rare occasion when ash from a nearby brush-fire filtered the sunlight into clay reds and orangey pinks -- those were best, she said.

I loved her sun-hat, whose shade stretched as a loose thatch across her face. Pocks of light shifted with each tilt of the hat -- snip, snip, snip. She worked diligently.

And her garden dress. She hated floral prints, but loved checkered colors of reds and whites and yellows: "you look like a tablecloth," I reeled playfully, but I could never hold for long and a smirk soon broke across my face; my eyes betrayed me first. She gave a giggle in protest and waved her clippers at me in playful indignation.

I loved her hair that day. She had stuck flowers she'd plucked from the annuals behind her ears. Her hair bloomed colors of red and white and yellow. She looked as part of the yard blossoms.

There was interruption in our play. I took her 'round the waist in embrace and kissed her. She sounded an "uh-huh" hum as our lips met. She always made this sound when one of my frequent advances pleased her especially.

After awhile, we parted, I went inside to fetch water and she resumed clipping. But I wouldn't return; I was opening up the blinds and windows to let the breeze in.

After awhile, she came looking; she found me -- on the couch. She took my hand and lead upstairs.

From So It Is in Life, Daniil Kharms, published in The New Yorker

A window with a drawn curtain was getting brighter and brighter because the day was beginning. The floors squeaked, the doors creaked, chairs were being moved around in apartments. Climbing out of bed, Ruzhetsky fell on the floor and smashed his face. He was in a rush to get to work, so he went outside, covering his face with his hands. His hands made it hard for him to see where he was going. Twice he bumped into an advertising kiosk; then he shoved some old man in a vinyl hat with fur earflaps, which sent the old man into such a fury that a janitor, who happened to be in proximity, because he was trying to catch a cat with a shovel, said to the increasingly agitated old man, “Shame on you, Gramps, for making so much trouble at your age.”

(1935)

A man to meet

I met a man today. He approached me as he walked across the street; I was standing at the corner of his destination. He looked flustered, muttering obscenities and curses upon himself. I asked if he had a smoke. He fumbled around his pockets, when at last he gave up and stammered an apologetic explanation. I told him not to worry and offered him a smoke. He accepted the offer, but gave a confused look. I did indeed lie. I had smokes. Truth is, though, I didn't want to puff alone. I figured he could use the company.

Our smoke wasn't to be seen; the morning fog hadn't burned off yet. The smoke became as the fog and only pinheads of ember could be made out from a distance. We chucked our butts and parted ways. The man went off feeling better, it seemed.

That was a good morning.

The Erector Set

Tried.

Yeah, sure. Let's construct the Erector Set on this rug; it has been too long since we last tried.

No Patience.

When we were kids, we never did finish. We never had the patience to piece it all together.
No, but this time 'round patience wasn't the obstacle; it was your

eyes
and
curves.

I let a piece drop; my eyes full of lust met yours, and like dry tinder, yours ignited. Your skin flushed. We both felt a tug below the waist. I cleared the Erector Set and we spilled upon the rug.

Piss and Wine

Churning in convection, the piss and wine, both bitter, and like acid, tear at him. Wine, which is sweeter, sinks, and piss replaces. And so it goes -- the heart furnace cycles piss and wine.

Nothing much satisfies him; but indifference certainly produces less pain. Useless as an assuagement, it only sweetens (but only a little) the wine.

From Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut

I looked through the Gideon Bible in my motel room for tales of great destruction. The sun was risen upon the Earth when Lot entered into Zo-ar, I read. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of Heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

So it goes.

Those were vile people in both those cities, as is well known. The world was better off without them.

And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.

So she turned to a pillar of salt. So it goes.

The Smell, Los Angeles, California

I swear I have better things to do

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43 things

The river's run dry

I'm leaving the Grand ol' Party.

The blithe and indolence of Orange County, California

From The Fall, Albert Camus

But allow me to call on our friend the primate. Nod your head to thank him and, above all, drink up with me, I need your understanding.

I see that that declaration amazes you. Have you never suddenly needed understanding, help, friendship? Yes, of course. I have learned to be satisfied with understanding. It is found more readily and, besides, it's not binding. "I beg you to believe in my sympathetic understanding" in the inner discourse always precedes immediately "and now, let's turn to other matters." It's a board chairman's emotion; it comes cheap, after catastrophes. Friendship is less simple. It is long and hard to obtain, but when one has it there's no getting rid of it; one simply has to cope with it. Don't think for a minute that your friends will telephone you every evening, as they ought to, in order to find out if this doesn't happen to be the evening when you are deciding to commit suicide, or simply whether you don't need company, whether you are not in a mood to go out. No, don't worry, they'll ring up the evening you are not alone, when life is beautiful. Af for suicide, they would be more likely to push you to it, by virtue of what you owe to yourself, according to them. May heaven protect us, cher monsieur, from being set on a pedestal by our friends!

Oh, Leslie

A small "scene" boy

Not but fifteen. Black disheveled hair under a black hoodie. It had a gloss to it, too; he probably hadn't showered in days. All of them had that gloss and that present, yet unobtrusive body odor. For the life of me, I could never figure out why it smelled fruity. He smoked--his kind did--and a cigarette hung between his pursed lips. On the exhale, he wouldn't do anything sexy, nothing provocative--nothing like rings or a curl, nothing to indicate pleasure--only a cloud of smoke and a sigh. He was counter-culture trash. He was a creature of the night; I'd only see him nights, and I believe he liked that best. The sun hurts him: exposes the immediacy of his world. At night, he can't see more than a couple of houses down, and he can vacillate between his indolence and duty. He doesn't need others--only money and spare time. Both of which, his yuppie parents dish out readily.

Milk

The milk has gone warm, left on the porch for near an hour.
The flies have got to it, too,
And I don't suppose the dog wants it.

I'll bring it in, anyways--perhaps put it in the fridge for later.
Nope.
There's last week's bottle--that too, left on the porch.

I should have the milkman deliver it some other time: later, as the morning carries on.
On habit, I don't get up before nine--late nights at the steel foundry and all.
Oh, but how I do enjoy my milk. Cornelius does too. Gruffy ol' dog. Needs it for his bones.

Wonder if the Times is out on the lawn.

A Weathered Spoon

Two, one in the other, spoon on a blanket on the sand at the beach.

Both wrinkled and weathered by work weary, they spoon as the sun dips beneath the sea's horizon.

It's a Saturday.

The Book Collector

I collect books. Piles of 'em. Most, I'll never read--finger probably, but they're all too long, and I don't have the time. The titles on the spines make me feel erudite. Often, I'll look upon them, all in line, noting each at a glance. They validate my identity as an esteemed lettered elitist. Touch them, yes, they fill my bookshelf out nicely, no? I'm better than you because I have more books--probably more interesting ones, too. Edified? Good. Pictures? Alright. But, please, no flash.

From Up in Michigan, Ernest Hemingway

She was thinking about him hard and then Jim came out. His eyes were shining and his hair was a little rumpled. Liz looked down at her book. Jim came over back of her chair and stood there and she could feel him breathing and then he put his arms around her. Her breasts felt plump and firm and the nipples were erect under his hands. Liz was terribly frightened, no one had ever toucher her, but she thought, "He's come to me finally. He's really come."

From Cenodoxus, Jacob Bidermann

So vast the surge of human souls that rains
Continuously down on us, I marvel
That there are any left here on the earth.

The runaway girl whom the highway men won't catch.

Did you run, run away? Go with the boy; run far. You'll hide away in a forest cabin. He'll hunt and skin, you'll boil water for stew. It'll be a hard life, but you'll make it. And as night falls and you both retire from your duties, give it a good fuck. The fuck the nobleman can't have. He won't catch you. He's too far off; his highway men are too few. Come to the tanner's shop if you should require me; I'll give you what little I can spare.