Just finished a NYT review of Woody Allen's new book Anarchy. I read the first page of the book a few days ago and it is, dare I say it, divine. But, then again, I am one of those who thinks he can do no wrong. Except for all of that bad stuff. And those few horrible films. Anyways, the review was good and the book looks great.
For today's lunch poem, I thought I'd type up a quick "Lunch Poem."
Instant coffee with slightly sour cream
in it, and a phone call to the beyond
which doesn't seem to be coming any nearer.
"Ah daddy, I wanna stay drunk many days"
on the poetry of a new friend
my life held precariously in the seeing
hands of others, their and my impossibilities.
Is this love, now that the first love
has finally died, where there were no impossibilities?
from Lunch Poems