Flicked from my hand, the flannel boxers skim
the hardwood floor, stopping at the brink
of the stairs. Past the level white bars
of the blinds, through the wavy old glass,
beyond the cobwebbed screen, the sun-
struck trees drop basketfuls of leaves.
Past their peak, said my friend Steve
as we drove south along the river to York
to hear Joan sing. But the sumac,
I insisted. Yes, so red, he said. The flames
they followed Joan of Arc, sings
Jennifer Warnes in the next room. Who's that?
asked Steve as I played the tape in my car,
and I said Leonard Cohen, and he said Oh,
oh. Such a gruff duet.
At her concert Joan Baez told
how a doctor had been summoned
for her finger, which she called,
inexplicably, Helen, and now,
Fat Helen. We got lost on the way
back home. The car windows utterly fogged in an instant.
When he popped my finger, Joan stage-whispered
as Carol, her back-up vocalist, leaned over as if
to puke, the pus flew out and hit his glasses!
Then she sang, and it was everything
I'd waited twenty years to hear. So many
squirrels here-and all in such a hurry! The route
through Harrisburg is squirrelly, Steve said.
We're tilting from the sun. Why does the toilet seat
provide my favorite upstairs view? I've spilled
my treasure, says the maple, her red slip in tatters
on the grass. Now who will look at me?
the other rally
what the world is &
what to do about it
what is charlie kaufman doing?
josh visits the