#72

Not her: The Unacceptable Gifts of Motherhood . . . . Finished. Put Stephen aside. One less reader now. "Wish I had a Cranly," told him. Square. And walked through winter snow to school. Inclining sky. Recall, the library.

Love? A center aisle, center seat - many men around. Brokeback film, poor-rear plot. And yet the tears of elders. Scott's admonition: romance qua. Sideburns and bristled lips. Such shallow sights that rise.

Fashion, I said from the couch. Playing with yourself. Costly uniforms. Jude and John and Tom and Rich, Damian, Geoff and Steven, Mike and Jon and Gregg and Matt and Mark and Daniel, Dave, and Jesse, Micah, Scott and Evan, Stu and Steve and Jon and Troy and Bill and Jeff. Missing something solid, true. And night, the costume? Red striped briefs and Diesel jeans, Brooklyn chain and camo tank, my brother's shirt on top. Image, music, text. Missing something still.

Other joys for vision. Flat-screen postures and oversize bills. This is a painting, this is a quilt. And the sun opened its shutters as I walked. Dirty pond vistas, my feet sore in shoes. Not Her: The Unacceptable Gifts of Motherhood . . . . Kierkegaard epitah. Hidden in envelope, fold. Deliver. Does no one understand? To read is not to see.