Sinister: Gee Ricky, I'm real sorry your mom blew up.

[Will Porter]

Well, I wasn't going to say anything, as I haven't got anything to say
(which will be abundantly clear in a few sentences), but then Julie threw
that damned parrot at me and now I'm stuck with it and it keeps repeating
everything I say, like the little brother I never had, only with more
birdshitty newspapers and fewer boogers and considerably broader
employment of such phrases as "fucking twat-bird" and "I've got your
fucking cracker right here."
And so now you're all stuck with a poem of my choosing.  God, the power.
But first:  a shiny nickel (albeit a virtual one, I'm too poor to be
distributing actual nickels) to the first person who can identify the book
from whence I extracted the following quotation (two nickels if the
quotation in context made you cry like a wee child with a skinned knee,
which is exactly what it did to me) (inicidentally, it's more poignant if
you know going into the quotation that the woman who is speaking is named
Alison and the man to whom she's speaking is named Nicholas.):

		"That reminds me. A crossword clue. I saw it months ago.
	Ready?" I nodded. "'She's all mixed up, but the better part of
	Nicholas'... six letters."
		I worked it out, smiled at her. "Did the clue end in a
	full-stop or a question-mark?"
		"It ended in my crying. As usual."

Why, I'm whimpering just thinking of it.

Which is par for the course lately.  I've been awfully weepy these past
few weeks, and I'm not sure why.  I'm usually so naturally bouyant.

My class that meets one tuesday evening is like some long forgotten
medieval boredom torture.  

I'm about to fidget right out of my pants waiting for the new album and
single.  

Awright.  The poem.  It's by Raymond Carver, who is dead.


Deschutes River

This sky, for instance:
closed, gray,
but it has stopped snowing
so that is something. I am
so cold I cannot bend
my fingers.
Walking down to the river this morning
we surprised a badger
tearing a rabbit.
Badger had a bloody nose,
blood on its snout up to its sharp eyes:
	prowess is not to be confused
	with grace.

Later, eight mallard ducks fly over
without looking down. On the river
Frank Sandmeyer trolls, trolls
for steelhead. He has fished 
this river for years
but February is the best month 
he says.
Snarled, mittenless,
I handle a maze of nylon.
Far away --
another man is raising my children,
bedding my wife bedding my wife.


I have decided that I could just read Raymond Carver's poems forever.
I've decided that before, too.  But I forget things.

That said, I hurl this rude, rude parrot into western Pennsylvania,
specifically the custody of one Marie Elia.
Do your worst, little arsonist.

love
will (not the new one anymore)

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