The cat's on the table just now, resentful and hungry; I forgot his food. Sorry Sammy. He'll survive 'til morning on cat snacks. Sam Smith's on Spotify; anyone paying attention here might be sick of him, he's starred in quite a few posts this summer. I'm still listening. The wine was a gift, and is from France; smooth and sexy. And it's after nine, the magic hour when the words that followed me around all day beg for attention and redemption. On the table beside me is that William Carlos Williams: Selected Poems book I mentioned yesterday; it's edited by poet Robert Pinsky, giving added weight to its significance, right? So I'm wondering, is this all a good combination, or a bad one? The wine is mellow and the music too; the cat will eventually go to sleep somewhere. That leaves me with Bill and this book; what a beautiful little book is is, almost pocket-sized, yet dense; the dust jacket sepia, and the hardcover itself gold and silver; the inside flyleaf is gold, the pages cream, soft to the touch, a book that makes love to your hands as you read. I could climb inside the book and make a pressed flower of myself. (If I were an asphodel.) All the usual Williams suspects are here, of course, and now I find new universes, like The Moon, 'diving / through bedrooms / makes the car / ride upon the page / by virtue of / the law of sentences.' These lines alone will fill my head next time I awake on a full-moon night when the same white light slices through the blinds and makes the cat into a tiger in its shadow. And what of a poem like this: 'Of asphodel, that greeny flower, / like a buttercup / upon its branching stem / save that it's green and wooden -- '? What of such a poem as that? We let it lead us on, and lament everything we might have otherwise written. Even this.
Let's go full Smith tonight