Tumble-
weeds we’d have been were it not a
melon patch we were in....
—Nathaniel Mackey
Happy
Hippie Hill Day! Needless to say,
I’m
excited. I’m giving each of the
Painting
Ladies (a wonderful new twist that
I just
caught quite inappropriately) personal
names. By me.
This one’s Hello, Mister
Boyfriend. And next to him is Jonah Hill
Is No Christian Bale. It’s true.
All at once
(and
one with) relaxation, a modicum of
technique
(how to lie down on a sparsely-
sunlit,
mildly moist angle of grass traversed
by more
dogs than humans), and no bottled
water
(can’t afford, stupidly didn’t bring).
I
almost manage to snooze a few minutes
after
finishing two books I began a couple
of
years ago (plus took a selfie with the
poem that made me cry a little bit). One
is a book of prayers by someone who doesn’t
is a book of prayers by someone who doesn’t
pray
but seems to sincerely desire to do so
(a
whole book built around this, and if
crying
indicates goodstuff, it worked in
there
somewhere). Perhaps this one I
actually
began only a month ago. Was
it a
Christmas present? Or just a random
gift
that appeared in conjunction or in
the
vicinity of the holidays? I can’t
remember. But the poem about being
picked
up at the hospital as a teenager,
puking
drunk, or drunk puking, but
mainly
fine, by a father who worked
all
night in a bar, who tucked her into
his
automobile, and brought her to
work, a
foreign place she’d never
once
set foot in before; him wrapping
his
arms around a trio of monster-size
maraschino
cherry jars, gentle and
joyous
as if they were newborn
triplets: the music is gorgeous!
The sun
is out. The spring lures
me in
before I sneeze a little to
greet
it. I spend my evenings
with Monsieur Baron Joie de
Vivre (I’ve named a Painting
Lady
for him, too), and I
really
must do this again
sometime very soon.