Glissade… pas de canard…
Tag: for free
“Blurtso begins to fit in”
Un, deux, trois… plié, fondu, developé.
“Pablo sings his songs”
Here are some songs I’ve written.
Cliffs of the heart
You can’t say yes
The best we can do
The snow is melting
Slipping into stone
Out of line
Kindness
Undo what’s done
Devil’s Sister
Liar sun
Because I love you
The hope it is
Letting go
Crossroads night
Take me there
All I want is a breeze
The beginning of you
Hell on the inside
The kingdom meant for me
Eight ounces of water
Go around
Catch, glide and shove
Too late for you
This girl do
Sleeping where the rich people play
Of all the gold
Echo
Afraid this time
Tenderness
A safe place to go
Seize the moment
Haven’t had yet
My Michelle
Cruel shapes
You made him a promise
Seventh day
My baby’s arms
More than the blues
Drink beer on stage
I’m in you
Save me
Giraffe
“Bonny and Pablo go for a walk”
That was a nice walk, said Pablo, what should we do now?
Let’s go home, said Bonny, and play Sudoku.
That’s 127 for Ditto, 96 for me, and 16 for Pablo.
“Blurtso and Harlan watch the snow” (II)
I guess there’s not much snow in Borneo, said Blurtso. No, said Harlan, but there are many palm trees. I like palm trees, said Blurtso. So do I, said Harlan, there’s nothing like napping in a palm grove… listening to the wind in the leaves, and feeling the shadows on your skin. Yes, said Blurtso, a palm grove is a great place to nap, and so is a recliner, under a palapa next to the sea. Yes, said Harlan, there’s nothing like napping to the sound of waves, with a cap pulled down on your eyes. A Red Sox cap? said Blurtso. Of course, said Harlan. The snow is nice too, said Blurtso. Yes, said Harlan, there’s nothing like napping in a loft, with a cup of hot cocoa, listening to the slosh of cars in the street. Yes, said Blurtso, or napping under an oak, on a summer day, in an empty field in Maine. I still can’t believe, said Harlan, the Red Sox didn’t win the World Series.
“Blurtso takes a trip” (XVI)
What is it in Venice that makes us feel we have been transported in time? Is it the ancient buildings and bridges, the palaces with their frescoes and the moss-lined canals? Is it the smooth-worn stones or the fountains of the piazze? Is it the stillness of the water and the echoing barcarole? No, it is rather the simple sound of voices and footsteps, heard, as if for the first time, in a city without engines, in a civilized world before the automobile.