Secret Pop

Mar 9, 2004

"Oh, I like your poetry, but I hate your poems."

I don't want it to be summer again so soon. Not even for a day. I don't want the sweat or the restlessness or the lethargy or the memory of any of those things. I don't want to go get my electric fan out of the garage. I don't want to shy away from cozy.

I walked to the post office today with a stack of brown paper-wrapped parcels. They were playing The Carol Burnett Show on the television up in the corner. My family always laughed at Carol and company. I keep passing up opportunities to see Harvey Korman and Tim Conway live. I have no idea what their show would consist of. I just know that it seems to be priced at a dollar per year they've each been alive. Live entertainment is getting to be outrageously expensive. And for the actual transcendency of entertainment value, ticket prices are making heroin look more and more attractive.

Already a week of March gone. I can't say it often enough how much the passage of time amazes me. No, really. I can't. You should expect to hear me say something about it on a near-monthly basis. I'm like a child still fooled by a game of peek-a-boo. Every month I forget what's hiding behind the calendar page. Another month! Peek-a-boo!

February had many pretty feelings in it. A few days of blue skies and the reminder that nearly everything in the world is painted in primary and secondary colors. And all of the other colors come in your crayon box. Fill in the blanks.

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