I am a Specific Kind of Problem

In the Country of Turtles there are no kings and no beggars but there is competition. Elephants are carved from quartz and hidden in the bedrooms of the lonely. What a savanna our dreams become! At night, you and I sit quietly on sandstone ramparts, half-hidden by giant urns full of wheat, and watch the moon try on its ten thousand dresses. We like what we like and want what we want - is it that simple? Rivers float off the earth, swans are crushed on the highway. What is home but an idea, albeit a useful one? What is living but a process that cares about preserving itself? As a child, I went into Woolworth's with my father to buy goldfish and came out clutching a bent penny whistle in a paper bag, wondering who'd been left behind. All the icicles this winter are soldered to the house eaves as if to remind me that even the idea of beauty cheapens beauty. Every song these days is written by an angry woman for whom I am a specific kind of problem. In mid-afternoon, over a stolen cup of coffee, we plot our next move. Those dance halls on the edge of town, they aren't going to sweep themselves.