Thursday, October 2, 2008
I love this time of year,
how she marvels at the fall colors,
and then colors her hair.
“Must you always be so . . . gray?”
Yes, I must. The artist who painted me
was melancholy, and used only gray;
go ahead — take my picture.
“My god, you are gray!”
I gave her a leaf. It had turned gray in my hand;
but it was a lovely gray — a gray with veins,
a gray of ten thousand subtle shades,
a gray inside gray still becoming gray,
a deep gray well in which gray voices
echoed the glad gray eternity of our names.
“Not to mention crazy.”
Congress Shall Make No Laws Concerning the Banning of Books
“Speaking of sexy and Whitman, in researching banned texts I came across this blog and, I say this without irony, the writer’s picture made me envious of the ability to grow a beard. Never in my whole life, try as hard as I may, will I end up looking so wonderfully, well, composed of books on the molecular level. *sigh* One more disappointment to toss onto the pile.”
As the Conversation continues, Paul’s grandfather says, “You have sadism stamped all over your bloated British kisser.”