“How simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea… . All that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple, frugal heart.”—Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba The Greek. (via lessadventurous)
“I see Obama as Sisyphus in the first four years, and nobody would speak about the size of the rock, or the elevation of the hill. All you hear people talk about is what he didn’t do. To come from what he has asked to take over and do in the time, to behave as an American, to put up with those, who were, in my estimation, acting very un-American to get rid of those people, it took longer than patience should allow, but he tried to bring us together, even to argue with radio hosts and people who have nothing to do with anything. It’s important that this man has had to fight a similar battle of a black person in America. Hundreds of thousands and millions of people still behind him, but people who are very quietly acting like they have no idea what he inherited. It’s as if he had the surplus, when he moved into office, and this is — this is sad. And it’s sad about them. Because they know that they have misbehaved. They know they’ve taken America and slowed down the progress, and there are statements that are very clear in saying as much. I don’t want this man to succeed. Well, why, said the brown fly?”
I reached up into the top of the closet and took out a pair of blue panties and showed them to her and asked “are these yours?”
and she looked and said, “no, those belong to a dog.”
she left after that and I haven’t seen her since. she’s not at her place. I keep going there, leaving notes stuck into the door. I go back and the notes are still there. I take the Maltese cross cut it down from my car mirror, tie it to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave a book of poems. when I go back the next night everything is still there.
I keep searching the streets for that blood-wine battleship she drives with a weak battery, and the doors hanging from broken hinges.
I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.
a confused old man driving in the rain wondering where the good luck went.
“Each writer/reader, pausing on the page before the poem begins, is a roar of mundanities. But then the words themselves, figured into syntax and line, bring quiet to the world.”—Heather McHugh, from “Tiny Étude on the Poetic Line” (via proustitute)
“I am eternally grateful for my knack of finding in great books, some of them very funny books, reason enough to feel honored to be alive, no matter what else might be going on.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake (via cassket)