Sunday, September 30, 2007


Driving back to our house from Manhattan after a good day and a great show and muskrat love starts playing on the radio and we all listen to it and I am writing postcards and just a little amazed by how little it takes to make perfection.

Like pink balloons adorning the front porch of a house in suburban new york, or cobwebs on the window sill at Junior's cafe off Broadway, trapping the last rays of the five o clock sun while I'm into my third spoon of devil's food cheesecake already and outside a young man speeds by on his mobike with his girlfriend's laughter hanging in the air like white linen on a clothesline in harlem.

Perfect day.

Like a crisp sheet of white paper.

Like a full house.

Like a standing ovation.

Like music and beauty, intricately entwined. And quietly heartbreaking.

Like acorns and fire hydrants whizzing past on the highway as meatloaf starts playing on my ipod.

Like a single dewdrop on a thin blade of glass.

Like a thin blade of grass.

Like a sunday in Manhattan.


W H said...

I'm fastidious...

But a perfect morning will be a good workout, which leaves that sweet pain in your muscles, followed by zzzzzzzzzzzzz-ing again.

Stormy Zephyr said...

How about 'like a thin slice of blueglass'? How about smoking hookahs at Kabul Grill?

compos mentis said...

@w h

Aye. That does sound purrfect.


Smoking hookahs at Kabul grill, am not too sure about. But a thin slice of blueglass, well, just about. Almost.