You Know, I'm Just A Very Boring,

Blasts From The Past Were Like The Rooms One Entered And Re-entered In Dreams: They Would Not Stay Nailed Down. When You Returned To Them, They Had Changed - They Suddenly Had More Space Or A Tilt Or A Door That Had Not Been There Before. New People Were Milling Around, The Floors Undulated, And The Sun Shone Newly, Strangely In The Windows, Or Through The Now Blasted-open Ceiling, Or Else It Shone Not At All, As If Having Fled The Sky.

Pleasantness Was The Machismo Of The Midwest. There Was Something Athletic About It. You Flexed Your Face Into A Smile And Let It Hover There Like The Dare Of A Cat.

Make A List Of All The Lovers You've Ever Had. Warren Lasher Ed "rubberhead" Catapano Charles Deats Or Keats Alfonse Tuck It In Your Pocket. Leave It Lying Around, Conspicuously. Somehow You Lose It. Make "mislaid" Jokes To Yourself. Make Another List.

If I Retain Any Freshness Of Approach, It's By Going Slowly Having Long Intervals Between Finished Projects.

Every Arrangement In Life Carried With It The Sadness, The Sentimental Shadow, Of Its Not Being Something Else, But Only Itself.