Monday, March 12, 2007


It's true the miserable are really happy. They hide their pleasure beneath frowns, like Ahab's whale diving back under the ocean. It'll peak from under their eyes, and you'll set your hook against them, ready to throw them from your sinking boat, but they swish their tails before you can shoot them. When it's their birthday they wear scarlet letters of pain, but they're actually glad they committed adultery with hope. They spit out its feathers and hide it under their shirts as a necklace. If it seems they're running out of life and nothing is worthwhile, they can still drink from the endlessly rocking sea. It cradles them, tells them they were once children who wanted to become pirates on Treasure Island, travel down the Mississippi in a raft, race frogs past gypsy steam boats, in the waves, under the sun.


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