EMBERS. A FEW trampled grasses. Having left Orange County a ruin, my father and I must flee.

Have I never seen the jungle, truly, the jungle ? Will we reach it ? There might be a sea between us. There might be a quiet. Do not try to follow.

HARD – HITTING ADVICE for the hard hit, the hard of hearing, the herd hearteners :

Recognize. Look how ugly your baby and purple so tightly it’s carried. Whereas. The face across the car, that is a fine face, fine-faced, fire-winged and she has candy even for you. But don’t take it, it’s for the children, you jerk. Then join the club. It is everybody’s club but each must hold his own meeting and there is always an argument over who is responsible for taking down the minutes, who is responsible for providing donuts. On the agenda is only one item. Where you have caused a commotion, say sorry, say hello.

(optional)
If you wake with a shirt on which a sheeted ghost, his arms poking from his sheet, gives two middle fingers, you never have to wear it. It’s purpose is served. If the Austrian keeps you from sleeping on the subway platform, that is a bonus.

DEAD BEET.

THIS is the body, our old body, and we have shed it. After which we arrived in Michigan. We have left the pressing bodies for the bodies of trees. Where we had a scarf of smoke over our eyes, even in the mountains, smoke and dust — the burning of leaves, of bodies, of tiny plastic wrappers spilling green fire, red dust stirred by buses up off the plains — now we have traded it for scarves of distance, miles around blue, you can see forever, nobody.

WE ARE BAFFLED.

FOR instance, beside the dozen fish each night under the candle the ladies sell on our street. Or, next to the fish, the anvil of pork under a screen. Or, the little stand selling cookies and mobile phone accessories. Between every seller is a half-booth, sometimes two half-booths. In every half-booth you might place a bet. They will not tell you what you bet on. You bet on bows and arrows, a dozen bows, a thousand arrows. These men will everyday, for your benefit, sometimes without looking, shoot the sunset air. These men do not make a sound.

ONE HUNDRED years we’d been skating ! Or, had been waiting to skate. They told us April one The Rink would open, and at the bottom of the hill we huddled until then. They did not lie.

April three : Freeskate (18:00 – 20:00). We rushed after school, after cheese and sharab and mustard. We had not brought our keys and one wheel, rattling, threatened to defect, but still we pushed around and around and around, until the space between slats in the floor drew ovals we were going to so fast. They told us the floor was one hundred years old. We imagined parasols and gowns, a great band on the stage, faces from the balcony seats, seersucker and taffeta. Circles, circling. We did not see a band, listened only to the floor, a wooden hoola hoop, with marbles inside. One gentleman may have been there then and then on through the parade of subsequent fashions, the way he swiveled his hips, tossing his white hair, a reverie, perfectly, moving backwards.

OUR HEART, shifting. How does one spend a revolutionary holiday, and if it falls on a weekend? Bravely. Pullout sections of the newspapers cataloged the new paths of love in this country. They told of how, in a bar, love can be a danger — that is, the people will come to bludgeon you for it. Also, of the rebellion, mountains of ladies’ underpants through the post, on the desks of the religious right (bludgeon wielding).

And for our part : We went to the mall. Proudly. Later, twenty five floors up, we ate at a restaurant that revolves, slowly, revealing this new city. Tandoori sweet potatoes. Fine, crusty little monuments enough.

WE consider the transmogrification. The verge of trying out our new legs.

TEN days late, we found them special for you. While we are away we thought to lend you fiercer friends, horsefaced. Do not worry, sweats, they will protect you.

HOW we groom for the year. Hair, check. Ears, check. Stash, check. Don’t we look very good? We should be in Hollywood.

FIFTY years later, as the president visited so are we to visit.

The explosion is for my father’s birthday. The dollar is for my love. We have not pictured the kerchief my father tied around the president because a boyscout can do that to another boyscout. The kerchief is for covering where the neck is bare. We have not pictured the near ewe.

WE’LL say we made a ritual out of leaving. One last white time, went to the last house on the mountain nearly air, asked ourselves about history and weather and whether the little puzzles we found in a box there would keep us sharp. Ritual asks sacrifice and we thought to offer vehicles, two : a white sedan and the Cutty Sark, both full sail, both frozen.

Ski Flying: If I were a ski-flyer, I would wear a tux.

“TWO athletes / are dancing in the cathedral / of the wind”

UNPICTURED : Equilateral triangle at Beuys’ waist — Tussle over felt — Regenerative properties of fat smeared over the whole body — Nest of Junior Mints, woolens, Kokanee cans.

This week’s observation. Neighbor, weather, electorate, sleep; everything’s bound to its coyote.

HARD WON WISDOM : Love makes a cake. Or a cake makes love. In any case, it is dark after Thai food and you are closer to death after Thai food because after anything — I don’t care what — death is closer and loves cake.

Should you find a boxcar, you should find the top because there, you can see tracks and a surprising color. It is a good place for dessert and you should thank your stars. Thank you. Also, consider taking more photos while bicycling. Danger makes things sweeter.