I hope that one day you will have the experience of doing something you do not understand for someone you love.

I’ve been told
that people in the army
do more by 7:00 am
than I do
in an entire day


but if I wake
at 6:59 am
and turn to you
to trace the outline of your lips
with mine
I will have done enough
and killed no one
in the process.

The empty blue sky of space says ‘All this comes back to me, then goes again, and comes back again, then goes again, and I don’t care, it still belongs to me

Each morning when I open my eyes I say to myself: I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.

Always be who you are, and say what you feel,
because people who mind don't matter,
and people who matter don't mind.

Estaba sentado en un taburete del 8-Count, sin pensar en nada en particular, como por ejemplo qué hacía yo allí bebiendo whisky con agua. Quizá fuese porque Marie se pasaba todo el tiempo protestando porque yo quería ir a clase de vuelo. Aunque ella siempre estaba protestando por algo. No me malinterpreten, ella era un alma más o menos buena, pero el mundo está lleno de almas más o menos buenas y mira dónde estamos: siempre sentados en el último segundo de cada minuto. Bueno, ya se sabe. De todas formas, era tarde y yo estaba sentado junto a aquel tipo mayor que llevaba un jersey de cuello vuelto naranja y pantalones cortos. De vez en cuando me miraba y sonreía, pero yo no le hacía caso. Realmente no tenía ganas de escuchar ninguna conversación típica de barra. Quiero decir que, cuando se está sentado sobre el último segundo de cada minuto, lo mejor es evitar las chorradas. El tiempo es oro, ¿no?

I’m going out of my mind, oh, oh
With a pain that stops and starts
Like a corkscrew to my heart
Ever since we’ve been apart

Memory can change the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car. And memories can be distorted. They're just an interpretation, they're not a record, and they're irrelevant if you have the facts.

Morning

I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

"What do any of us really know about love?” Mel said. “It seems to me we’re just beginners at love. We say we love each other and we do, I don’t doubt it. I love Terri and Terri loves me, and you guys love each other too. You know the kind of love I’m talking about now. Physical love, that impulse that drives you to someone special, as well as love of the other person’s being, his or her essence, as it were. Carnal love and, well, call it sentimental love, the day-to-day caring about the other person. But sometimes I have a hard time accounting for the fact that I must have loved my first wife too. But I did, I know I did… There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I’d like to know. I wish someone would tell me.

-Una vez, cuando estaba en el instituto, una psicóloga me dijo que fuera a su despacho. Se lo decía a todas las chicas, una cada vez. “¿Qué clase de sueños tienes?”, me preguntó la mujer. “¿Qué piensas hacer dentro de diez años? ¿Y de veinte?” Yo tenía dieciséis o diecisiete años. No era más que una niña. No sabía qué contestar. Me quedé allí sentada como un pasmarote. La psicóloga tendría más o menos la edad que yo tengo ahora. Me parecía vieja. Es vieja, dije para mí. Sabía que ya había pasado la mitad de su vida. Y tuve la impresión de saber algo que ella no sabía. Algo que ella nunca llegaría a descubrir. Un secreto. Algo que nadie debía saber ni decir. Así que me quedé callada. Sólo moví la cabeza. Debió de catalogarme como idiota. Pero no dije nada. ¿Comprende lo que quiero decir? Creí saber cosas que ella ni siquiera adivinaba. Ahora, si alguien volviera a hacerme la misma pregunta, acerca de mis sueños y lo demás, se lo diría.

-¿Qué le diría?

Suspira y se echa hacia atrás. Deja que le retenga la mano.

-Le diría: “Los sueños son eso de lo que uno se despierta.” Eso es lo que diría.

You'll never know the hurt I suffered nor the pain I rise above,
And I'll never know the same about you, your holiness or your kind of love,
And it makes me feel so sorry.

Now, I'd like two eggs, over hard. I know, don't tell me; it's hard on the arteries, but old habits die hard — just about as hard as I want those eggs. Bacon, super-crispy. Almost burned. Cremated. That's great.