From September 2017

“Blurtso considers Shakespeare”

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My Shakespeare paper is due tomorrow, I’d better get started. I wonder what I should write? I guess it would be too obvious to say that Shakespeare knew a lot, even though he did. He knew more than I know, that’s for sure. I wonder how he learned all the things he knew? I wonder if he went to school? I wonder if he wrote papers? I wonder who students wrote papers about before Shakespeare became Shakespeare? If Shakespeare would have known how famous he was going to become, he could have written a paper about himself. That would be easy. Even I could write a paper about myself. But I don’t think I’m ever going to be famous. I don’t think Harvard is ever going to offer a class called “Introduction to Blurtso 101,” or “Advanced Blurtso 320,” or “Blurtsearean literature and the end of Enlightenment.” At least I hope not, because I don’t want to be famous. If I were famous, I wouldn’t have a moment to myself. People would be bothering me everywhere I went, even in the library, and I’d never be able to get started on my Shakespeare paper, or my Blurtso paper, and I’d really better get started, because it’s due tomorrow.

“Blurtso misses his shadow”

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Some people say these woods are haunted, said Pablo, they say the shadows of the trees are spirits longing to break free. I don’t think my shadow longs to break free, said Blurtso, I think it would be lonely without me.

“Because I love you”

Ode to the loveseat

Yellow, loveseat couch,

against the wall,

looking out

the living-room window,

the window that looks

down the tree-lined street

where neighbors do

their neighborhood things,

you wait for me

to sit in your lap,

or nap

with my head on one arm

and my feet on the other.

 

You are the bed

where my body rests

while I listen to my love

tell tales of family and friends,

or challenge my statements

with insights

and more hopeful points of view.

 

You are the softness

that supports me

as I gaze at the softness of my love,

curled in her chair,

swaddled in the song of my guitar,

drifting from attention to sleep.

 

Other times,

you hold us both in your arms

as we look out on the weather,

on the sun, and the rain, and the snow,

while the hours pass uncounted,

lost,

in the shelter

of shared presence.

“Blurtso becomes nostalgic”

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The leaves are changing. The world is a year older and I’m a year older. But for those born this past year, the world is brand new. If you’ve been here a while it’s hard to see the world as brand new. You see things that aren’t what they used to be and become nostalgic for the way they used to be. Or maybe you just become nostalgic for the way you used to see things, when you used to see things as brand new.