Let me touch you. Give me your hand. I will show you the way.

Love your enemies. Go without. Are are are. Don’t hate. Intend. Command direction. If this were an autobiographical entry, I would write about Arty Vogt’s pickup truck that he bought in Texas. He said they were much cheaper there. If this were a political speech, I would write about the War on Terror, privilege, labor laws. If this were art, I would write about temple prostitutes, the Bay of Bengal, Imelda Marcos. Yes, and many thanks to Brendan Lorber who hosted me and Murat Nemet-Nejat the other week at Zinc Bar.

Yesterday was my birthday and I didn’t hear from Brian Brooks. His is in a few days. Will I remember to call him? Every spring it comes like a shoplifter. That’s for Calvin, the above allusion. It’s private. And the tourists flock to certain sections of the park. I almost fall into them. Today is prettier than yesterday. A cup of coffee. Poems to read. Writing letters. An email. Watching a robin. Planting an azalea. Jumping off a cloud. Picking the buildings for Cindy.

Yesterday morning I had a cup of coffee and a slice of raspberry pie for breakfast. There is a family of robins in the tree. Packing and unpacking books. Painting walls. Hezekiah. Ezekiel. Jeremiah. Jehosophat. Josephus. Nero. Australia. Back to the city in a day or two. I'll climb on top of Central Park and look for Foggy Bottom or the Pentagon or Cape Horn.