Thursday, March 26, 2020

John Yau, "After I Turn Sixty-Nine"

I don’t imagine that a chariot is hurrying near but that a sleek car is speeding up
I have started a list of the costumes I want to be buried in, beginning with horny centaur
I try to put aside obituaries but I am unable to do so for very long (maybe ten minutes)
I eat the same meal every night while reading recipes of dishes I have never tasted
I shudder nearly every time I read the phrase “Lifetime Guarantee or Your Money Back.”
I no longer find it necessary to stop and look at what is going on at a construction site
I decide I won’t tell people to stop sending me books even if I will never read them
I stop and watch ambulances trying to get past cars that don’t want to move aside
I begin thinking about different methods I might use to remove myself from the story
I know what my friend meant when he said his dog would take his place on the couch
I think about the cities I will never return to, including Cadaqués and Caracas
I wonder when I will no longer begin a sentence with the words “if” and “when”
I dream that my ashes will be scattered in a remote spot in Ireland that no one visits
I admit that shrinking into myself is not as unpleasant as I once thought

Monday, March 23, 2020

I spent the entire weekend thinking about this walrus


It's possible I've never loved anything more

Sunday, March 15, 2020

COVID-19 report












The devil, probably


Tuesday, March 10, 2020

You, yesterday’s boy, to whom confusion came

I keep seeing this, from Rilke's "To the Younger Brother," floating around:
Then suddenly you’re left all alone
with your body that can’t love you
and your will that can’t save you.
...and I would like everyone to know that this poem is about masturbation

Rain in Los Angeles this week and I couldn't be happier


Flash & the Pan, "Walking in the Rain"
© CLUB SANDWICH
Maira Gall