(or Thanksgiving on the Baltic)
Dutch trains like spectacles of insecurity.
—D.W. Lichtenberg
I was closed Wednesday and
discovered getting to a top on
Nob Hill. Delirious down Hyde
and specifically the part where we
were hanging off a cable car to
get back and deciding maybe
friends would take us there. Are
you off? I’m so off. And so
off we went. Used to be a word
(pleasant) always meant I should
take a big bite out of him. Eating
flesh knows the future, or so my
cookie likes to say. Reading this,
I know, zombies. So tonight we
take his request. Talking pictures
with lots of spots, or so suggests
my nephew (He’s all strapping
now, often shirtless. How simple
we must have been!). Anyway,
on a whim we fly into a couple of
kitchens in Santa Cruz, fall in love
all Swedish. It’s like how many
months of this happening? I
know, but don’t forget:
we all get 2 or 3 chances
on the RSVP. So today
I’m on a boat to the Spilled
Blood to praise be. Ah, men.
