Don’t wait for definitions I’ve had my fill of aftertalk and overtalk, of meanings that don’t mean, of words not true enough to be invisible, of all those Januaries of the mind when everything that happens happens from the eyebrows up.
If truth is in the taste and not the telling, give me whatever is and cannot be again — like sherbet on the tongue, like love… Paris defined is Paris lost, but Paris loved is always Orly in the rain, broiled pork and chestnuts near the Rue de Seine, the motorcade that sped de Gaulle himself through Montparnasse.
Viva the fool who said “show me a man who thinks, I’ll show you a man who frowns.” Which reminds me on Andrew, learning to count by twos and asking, "where is the end of the counting?" Let’s settle for the salt and pepper of the facts.
Oranges don’t parse, and no philosopher can translate shoulders in defeat, or how it feels when luck’s slim arrow stops at you, or why lovemaking’s not itself until it’s made.
Let’s breathe like fishermen who sit alone together on a dock and let the wind do all the talking. That way we’ll see that who we are is what we’ll be hereafter.
We’ll learn the bravery of trees that cannot know “the dice of God are always loaded.” We’ll think of life as one long kiss, since talk and kisses never mix. We’ll watch the architecture of the clouds create themselves like flames and disappear like laughter