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                                              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
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 with, 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.