just after two comes three... simple enough... but one and two have demanded too much... to say nothing of the zero from which all numbers flow... and to which they do return

years are cool. years don't care. years are ideas. they run a track parallel but only rarely intersecting with the body we lug around from mall to restaurant to bookstore to bed to school. years are not things unless ideas are things. i can't hold one in my hand or polish it up or toss it over my shoulder. years are bottles and jars, baskets of fruit.

guy davenport... recently read:

"If greed, rapacity, and selfishness are the opposite of a basket of summer fruit, Amos gives us one of the most beautiful of hyperboles at the end of his book, where he describes what might be, if two walk together and be agreed, and man and God walk together.

Behold, the daies come, saith the LORD, that the plowman shall overtake the reaper and the treader of grapes him that soweth seede, and the mountains shall drop sweeet wine, and all the hills shall melt. And I will bring againe the captivitie of my people of Israel; and they shall build the waste cities and inhabit them; and they shall plant vineyards, and drink the wine thereof; they shall also make gardens, and eat the fruit of them. And I will plant them upon their land, and they shall no more be pulled up out of their land, which I have given them, saith the LORD thy God.

That is, the basket will again be full of summer fruit."

look beyond zionist/anti-zionist madness. no poetry in any of that. just bombs and blood. the years tumble away all full of our impossible selves... my self and your self and... thank God... their selves (we never liked them much anyway).

you can make a list if you want... a list of three. three things worth forgetting for the new year. three streets to avoid. three poems to say. three songs to sing. three friends to bug... but i don't... nevermind. three fears worth ignoring, guns worth shooting, cans worth kicking. three big things to make small. three small things to love. three breaths worth breathing deeply. three lies worth whispering over and over again. three tricks. three dogs. (but always and only one cat)

my mad sermon on a new number... same as the old number... three... oh three... fill my three baskets with three apples and three pears and three broken mirrors... send them to my door in the twice triple hands of three sad frenchmen....

no i haven't been drinking anything stronger than very very bad de-caf at bakers square... just feel like making no sense here at the start of a new year... a new number... been reading Lacan for Beginners... go figure... i should know better by now... you should know better too

what were you expecting? happiness? joy? good wishes for the new number? well.... you've got 'em. really... i'm hoping the best for you... i'm praying your health and good spirits... you deserve it all if anyone does... you've got so much... potential... such a rich.... heritage....

let's all resolve to be a little bit stranger for the new number.

ok?

fight the power.

A dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance, and to turn around three times before lying down.
Robert Benchley

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