A Tidings of Magpies

Ahhhh...Friday. A lovely end to the week, though it means for me the end to my three days of freedom and the start of the weekend to work. Temperatures have dropped a bit and the humidity is low, which, like the Hokey-Pokey, is what it's all about anyway. Hubby and BoxerBoy are on their way home from the lake where they have been having some fishing time. Apparently our dog fell in love with another family there, tried to get in their car after all their oohs and ahhs over his extreme handsomeness. Bit of a jolt to the heart since we have been missing him terribly and keep thinking we'll take a walk with him, or bathe him, or feed him and he's not here . HoneyHaired and I have shared some grrrlie time--mostly avoiding the studying she has to do for the start of school--August 17th. Still working on Crime and Punishment, but has viewed two of the three films for another class. And did write the paper for Art History, so maybe not as far behind as I worry. Saw Despicable Me-...

by James Tate People in this town drink too much coffee. They're jumpy all the time. You see them drinking out of their big plastic mugs while they're driving. They cut in front of you, they steal your parking places. Teenagers in the cemeteries knocking over tombstones are slurping café au lait. Recycling men hanging onto their trucks are sipping espresso. Dogcatchers running down the street with their nets are savoring their cups of mocha java. The holdup man entering a convenience store first pours himself a nice warm cup of coffee. Down the funeral parlor driveway a boy on a skateboard is spilling his. They're so serious about their coffee, it's all they can think about, nothing else matters. Everyone's wide awake but looks incredibly tired.

Every time someone says "show me your papers," Hitler’s family gets a residual check. So heads up, Arizona; that’s fascism. I know, I know, it’s a dry fascism, but it’s still fascism.--Seth Meyers Very disappointed in you, Arizona...

It's really, really, really warm. Brutally. Hot. Memories of the heat wave of 1995 kind of hot. I can't live 24/7 in an air conditioned bedroom. I have a busy, full life with things to do, places to go and people to see. Dishes to wash. And..., our TV is in the living room, not the bedroom, so you can see my difficulty here. I am desperately seeking distraction. I signed up to work an extra 8 hours today simply to be out of this oven of a house for a little while. That, my friends, is desperation. Ocean's Twelve is on the Oxygen channel with some of my favorite bad boys of summer, which, with some well placed fans and a carton of Madison's Lemon Basil sorbet, is distracting enough for an afternoon. HoneyHaired and I are leaving later tonight for Spring Grove Cemetery and their annual Moonlight Tour. We're hoping for some spookiness with a touch of chills. Oh, bring it on. Big gusts of chills. A Summer Night by Kate Barnes A summer night. The moon's face, alm...

Relax by Ellen Bass Bad things are going to happen. Your tomatoes will grow a fungus and your cat will get run over. Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream melting in the car and throw your blue cashmere sweater in the drier. Your husband will sleep with a girl your daughter's age, her breasts spilling out of her blouse. Or your wife will remember she's a lesbian and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat— the one you never really liked—will contract a disease that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth every four hours, for a month. Your parents will die. No matter how many vitamins you take, how much Pilates, you'll lose your keys, your hair and your memory. If your daughter doesn't plug her heart into every live socket she passes, you'll come home to find your son has emptied your refrigerator, dragged it to the curb, and called the used appliance store for a pick up—drug money. There's a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger. When...

by Nicole Walker They ran the numbers twice for you giving you the benefit of the doubt but you knew the computer at the other end of the officer’s PDA would not find your brown number in its little black index. You drove exactly one mile per hour below the speed limit. You buckled your baby into his car seat according to instructions. You signaled for exactly three seconds before you turned left. You wanted to hide the Subway wrappers, the empty box of Orbitz gum. Evidence of Big Macs. You wanted to drink the Mountain Dew before it turned toxic in the hot Phoenix sun as you asked, doesn’t this green sludge make me American enough? But you didn’t move because you knew the officer would have taken that for gun-finding or drug-hiding or some other supposed Mexican sport. You with your hands at ten and two wondered how long the bus ride the officer would take you on would last and whether they would provide any water. You wondered, as the officer put hand to holster, how dangerous it woul...

by June Robertson Beisch The parade began and the Bryant Jr. High School band marched through the streets of Minneapolis wearing white shirts, blue trousers, playing John Philip Sousa Lance, Jack, Sharon and myself on drums, strapped to our knees so we could play, arms akimbo, drumsticks held high, drum rolls, paradiddles, rim shots, flams while the trumpets groaned and the bystanders cheered us on in the rain-drenched streets. The Girl Scouts strutted ahead of us wearing their green uniforms, berets and badges waving the Girl Scout flag, and smiling, We could do anything after this, we felt, twirling our drumsticks between our fingers Such joy seems unimaginable until I conjure it Not even Wordsworth's memory of a field of daffodils comes close to it The picnic later at the Minnehaha Falls Park, then walking home much later in the dark still filled with the sounds of it. To march at thirteen...

by Sue Ellen Thompson The tests, the bloodwork—they were good days, with magazines to absorb the time spent waiting. The nurses' banter spread a sheen of normalcy over everything, and the doctors left a little space in their advice where spirit might lodge. The three of us went everywhere together, and at last I knew the pleasure that the only child takes in the company of her makers. Then the doctor came to us one day and said the chemo hadn't made the kind of progress he was looking for, that we could take my mother home and stay. We sat there, stunned by what our weeks of rushing to appointments had not left us to contemplate, then drove home without speaking. This day, unlike the others, would not end with smiles and good-byes, my father's and my arms tucked beneath my mother's and hope's modest, steady flame still unextinguished in us at the thought of eating supper at the kitchen table before we called the cats in from the dark. please note: photo by Abizelet...

The cicadas are back. Now we can call it summer. Although we live in the midst of a city, frequently there are moments when sitting on the porch we hear only the sounds of birds or wind and, lately, the rise and the falling chorus of cicadas. That is summer. Our home is cooled off only in certain rooms, so the majority of the house is hot, and baking, now that its brick exterior is holding in the heat. Chores get done little by little or not at all. HoneyHaired and I are both slowly gearing up for school to begin. She still has summer reading and is still plowing through Crime and Punishment. I am a bit farther behind and simply trying to plug in my school ID in order to recieve all the graduate school email and instructions waiting to be seen. I can't even get past USER NAME. This could easily take all weekend. Hubby's at work. HoneyHaired will go in for a few hours at the hardware store. CollegeGrrrl tells us she's coming home tomorrow for her birthday. And I'm havin...

by Charles Bernstein Not for all the whiskey in heaven Not for all the flies in Vermont Not for all the tears in the basement Not for a million trips to Mars Not if you paid me in diamonds Not if you paid me in pearls Not if you gave me your pinky ring Not if you gave me your curls Not for all the fire in hell Not for all the blue in the sky Not for an empire of my own Not even for peace of mind No, never, I'll never stop loving you Not till my heart beats its last And even then in my words and my songs I will love you all over again

You Are There by Erica Jong You are there. You have always been there. Even when you thought you were climbing you had already arrived. Even when you were breathing hard, you were at rest. Even then it was clear you were there. Not in our nature to know what is journey and what arrival. Even if we knew we would not admit. Even if we lived we would think we were just germinating. To live is to be uncertain. Certainty comes at the end.

To whom it may concern, I realize it's my weekend to work and that I recently returned from a two vacation, but was recently notified that I must travel out of town immediately. I will contact you soon to confirm my return to work. I might have a new name!! And maybe a new look! For the interim I will need a letter of reference from your office. Will send you details of where to send soon in a plain manila envelope labeled "PHOTOS OF MILAN." Any help you are able to give will be greatly appreciated. Sincerely, Natasha Fatale

by Charles Bukowski sometimes I think the gods deliberately keep pushing me into the fire just to hear me yelp a few good lines. they just aren't going to let me retire silk scarf about neck giving lectures at Yale. the gods need me to entertain them. they must be terribly bored with all the others and I am too. and now my cigarette lighter has gone dry. I sit here hopelessly flicking it. this kind of fire they can't give me. please note: art by Fabian Perez

by Julie Hanson You don't need to know its name to know it is a weed; if it has taken hold between two paving bricks, if its thin root or complex undermop is wedged where the concrete riser joins the concrete step, then assuredly it is. It is redundant, stubborn work, to which you squat or kneel or bend, moving lowly in one manner or another over the entire area to be covered so that, naturally, afterwards, you'll ache. And yet, what better use could you have put these to: one yellow-handled tool and two tightening circles of thought? For those times when the heart, still resonant and stunned, is dominant, this is the kind of work you want, mindless work, where it is best to look no more than one weed ahead, and where the iron inability to set a course drills the focus downwards with single-mindedness and depth. please note: photo by undertheturnpike Well, it has been Home Sweet Home for a few days now. If HoneyHaired ever downloads her photos I'll post them, but it essenti...

The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Not digging it, being back home, and think my dog has the vacation blues.

by Charles Wright The mares go down for their evening feed into the meadow grass. Two pine trees sway the invisible wind— some sway, some don't sway. The heart of the world lies open, leached and ticking with sunlight For just a minute or so. The mares have their heads on the ground, the trees have their heads on the blue sky. Two ravens circle and twist. On the borders of heaven, the river flows clear a bit longer. please note: photo by Dalla*s