Heard our former poet laureate read this on a repeat of The Prairie Home Companion yesterday.[Feb. 2002 issue of Poetry, http://www.creekcats.com/pnprice/winegoblet.html]

Litany
By Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

If Inkblot were a Prohibition era gangster, her name would be Stompy McFluff.It's hard to hold a tommy gun with tiny paws. Milo is Scarface at the moment because of the goddamn cat next door.

Wonder of the World

On the bottom right hand corner
of the L.A. Times around three years ago
was a picture of a stone fist
thought to be part of the Colossus of Rhodes,
the golden statue that once overlooked the Minoan Harbor

Fumbling around for a seat belt
when I was seventeen,
my knuckles brushed against yours in the white volkswagen
and I wished you would take me to the fox hills motel
rather than straight home
but your eyes revealed no interest

Last night your knuckles brushed
my knee as you knelt before the couch where
we were all discussing electromagnetic radiation
and the cancer clusters associated
with high power lines and telephone transformers
and you said good-bye again

If nothing else, I love your voice,
your flop sweats, and your dissatisfaction

I haven't heard anything since
about that lost wonder of the world
They never discovered the rest of it
But something stirs in my mind
when I think of that tense hand
with those giant white knuckles
against the floor of the Aegean Sea
clenched for centuries,
just waiting to open

The chanteuse reminds the back-up band, "Dynamics, boys."

The Face Behind the Face

Where does it live, the face behind the face?
Everyone ought
To know all that there is
About the face that is his.

People often haven't a clue
About their very own I.
Each of us makes his own
Best defense counsel.

Nero, apparently, thought
He was a poet.
Hitler thought that he
Would redeem the world from woe!

The mean man thinks: "I am so generous."
The shallow man: "I am profound."
Sometimes God will sigh: "I am a worm."
The worm hisses: "I am God!"

The worms climb arrogantly upwards.
The coward rejoices to be in the clouds.
Only the free man
Thinks:
"I am a slave."

--Yevgeny Yevtushenko

From the collection, The Face Behind the Face published by Marion Boyars Publishers Ltd.

Quoting from the Frank M. Guide To Sarcasm in Parenting

The other day I took my nephew and two other kids to a water slide park. In the car, they were discussing how, if you use a Play Station or Gameboy for a long time, your hand starts to hurt. I felt compelled to chime in with, "It's a tough life!"

The school needs extra room and you've found an old house nearby to renovate. It turns out the house is haunted by the ghost of a developmentally disabled little boy with spectacles. As poltergeists go, he is a particularly big pain in the ass. For instance, when he sees you turn on the burner of the stove, he brings in the garden hose to put it out. The house is a mess. There are big chunks that have come out of the door frames and broken glass is everywhere.

Even that ghost says you keep staring at me.

All the condoms have expired.

Shrinkie the Bear says:
Quit imbuing everything with meaning.

I had become a little obsessed with figuring out what a certain piece of cheesy yet oddly compelling music was. I first heard it when I was watching part of the bad John F. Kennedy Jr. story TV movie. Then, it was used in a PBS promo.I tried describing it to people, but no one could tell me what it was and I couldn't find any clues on the web. Last night it played at the end of the "Bourne Supremacy" and it turns out it's called "Extreme Ways" by Moby. What a relief.

One day the coat of Princess Meow-Meow is going to make a fine pair of mittens, especially if she keeps tearing up the carpet like she's been doing.

Here's a couple of ideas:

1)Hook all the fitness equipment in gyms across America up to power generators and let exercisers add to the power grid.

2)Scratch n' sniff Advent calendars.

I need to learn the die cutting business.