Shark Shirt

He sat amid a sea of empty cafe tables and chairs — a lone island in perhaps the Pacific.

The shirt he wore bore illustrations of small sharks — a throng of them speckling the deep.

He himself wore a mohawk.

He had just demolished a slice of pizza: The flattened box sat lifeless on his table.

Hunched in his chair, he now cruised social media on his cellphone.

This and that

Lagrime San Pietro for the sublime voices. Di Lasso madrigals. Better with snowfall in barren winter but still above-average lovely.

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Can cannibalism save the planet?
Would you eat a Republican
to help curtail climate change?

**

It’s a perfect day and age
to talk to yourself.
Bluetooth as a ruse —
a bum component wedged
in one’s ear allows one
to carry on in public
unquestioned.

An intro to pretty much every topic you can think of

This Oxford University Press book series is great for those of us who are curious about everything and want to know it all. I spotted them at a local bookstore.

My favorites:

  • A Very Short Introduction to Identity
  • A Very Short Introduction to Infinity
  • A Very Short Introduction to Nothing
  • A Very Short Introduction to the History of Time
  • A Very Short Introduction to the Antarctic
  • A Very Short Introduction to Plate Tectonics
  • A Very Short Introduction to Chaos
  • A Very Short Introduction to Genes

Cats, etc.

Having a cat is like having a plant. You have to give it food, water and some love and make sure it has access to a window. Handle delicately.

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Bukowski as the gateway poet.

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New Ginsberg book. Post-mortem. $29.95!! The trick is they use courier or some other slab serif to evoke strike-on font.

Book features Ginsberg outside U.S. — journals he penned in England, Poland, Soviet Union, Cuba, Czechoslovakia.

Black-and-whites of him in fur-collar jacket in Red Square, Moscow; performing at Royal Albert Hall in London; pictured in Prague.

Summer casualties

Everything colorful was gone from the woman’s flower beds, despite all her ardent work. The summer just wouldn’t allow anything other than perennial green now.

Listening to Chopin’s tender Nocturnes as dusk descended, I gazed into her yard at a wheelbarrow holding slender planks of oak she had acquired for a trellis. A large ceramic pot sat hollow inside the wheelbarrow belly, along with smaller plastic pots — summer casualties, all lumped together and parked in the shadow of an awning.