Running Random

The heaters are both out in June, and this worries me.

Outside, a steady trill.
Outside, I wear two layers.
Outside, I grill the blood from the meat.

In fact, the cheeseburger bird is not the cheeseburger bird but is the white-throated sparrow; yet, the white-throated sparrow is not the trill I speak of.

Did I mention it's June?

My father wants to talk about the silliness of global warming ideas. Rather than dispute about misleading terminology, I swerve us toward new bed sheets---how well he's sleeping these nights.

Today, I wished for the little boy from Twlight Zone (the movie) to come and take my sons' mouths away. He never showed up. "I wish the weird boy would come and take them, right...now." This only works in the Labyrinth.

Cole Swensen's Try is difficult, but intriguing. More on this later.

Next: the final week of the intensive poetry workshop with Leslie Adrienne Miller. It's been good, bad, encouraging, discouraging, fruitful, full of spits and sputters.

In this chest: tangerines, a fistful of lilacs.
In this chest: synchronized swimmers.
In this chest: a poison, an antidote, a stone.

I'm going home soon.