for Reb L.

Despair and heart-hurt is good for the blogging. I shall blog more and more.
I shall blog and blog and blog and write little nine-line poems for weeks!
I shall be shat upon by birds, a portent of fortuitous book publication and money.
I will drink pints of beer in glasses made for Belgian ales.
I will drink my thirty dollar bottle of Gewurztraminer alone on my dirty floor.
I shall eat Ethiopian food, swigging Tusker all the while as Neil Young plays in the bar.
Stuff is flying out of me at incredible velocity! What is it? It's just stuff.
The days are not as long as they used to be in California in 1978.
There is in all of this a pure note, a hushed huff, a piece of paper with lovely scribbles.
This becomes something to take to the beach; it is called Rebecca.