Green-and-white striped tug:
Barge being pushed upriver
By a wedding cake.
Across bright water,
Cranes lined up along far shore,
Red against blue sky.
Thick white ice collar
Divides moss from barnacles
On wet brown piling.
And if you like my haiku, check out 211 HAIKU, the e-book of same.
Yesterday, Ed Koch died. A few hours later, a film on his life opened. A real Koch exit. RIP, Mr. Mayor.
Ladies and gentlemen, <a href=http://on.today.com/Yk0eje” target=”_new”>this</a> is what happens when you come to my workshop. Linda Stasi was in Assisi with me a number of years back, working on this very book. She’d never written a thriller but her instincts were terrific and she was completely dedicated. I’m so proud I could bust my buttons.
I often wonder. This past week I’ve been right here, in my sunny apartment, with my writing partner, the infamous Carlos Dews. We’ve been drinking tea (Barry’s Irish, if you must know, or Kenyan Tinderet) and trying frantically to work out the framework for Sam Cabot’s next book. Also we went to the studios of our publisher, Penguin/Blue Rider, and made a BLOOD OF THE LAMB interview video which you lucky folks will get to see oh so very soon. We spent an hour on a conference call with the map-maker, too. (You’ll love the map.) This work schedule is what’s kept me from you, so you can blame Carlos, which is fine with me. But he’s going back to Kuwait today — he’s from Texas, he lives in Rome, he’s teaching this year in Kuwait, what am I gonna do? — so here I am again, ready to return to as close to normal as I’ve ever been.
Crumpled plume of steam <br>Rolling from rough brick smokestack <br>Into smooth blue sky. <br> <br>Curving blades of grass, <br>Each one a dark brown brushstroke <br>On ivory field. <br> <br>Seagull flaps past, swoops, <br>Circles, peers at floating trash, <br>In case it’s breakfast.
Carlos Dews, that would be, and he’s here for about a week. We have so much work to do! We always work very hard, and are totally serious at every moment, as you can see from when we were in doing research in Rome.
In order that when my writing partner, Carlos Dews, gets to NYC tomorrow, I have the decks cleared to work on nothing but the next Sam Cabot book for the week, and then to plunge into it full-time once he leaves because it’s due in less than a year, I’m doing my taxes. This is something I usually manage to put off until at least March, and if I get it together to get an extension, sometimes June. It’s just so BORING, plus painstaking, and there’s always one month’s Con Ed bill missing, and and and. As I writer I have lots of deductions, including all my travel, but deductions are only useful if you have all the paperwork to prove them, and the categories they go in, and and and. Even listening to music doesn’t really help. Okay, end of whine, back to work.
The Prez was inspiring yesterday, no? I have to say that though I thought the speech was terrific, and the subdued pomp struck just the right second-time-around note, and the weather was glorious and made it all look beautiful, what I loved best was the clowning around as a family in the reviewing stand, that clip that’s making all the TV news shows. Yes, I’d prefer a superhero President, someone who’s better, kinder, more just, more subtle, and much, much, smarter than the rest of us. If there’s anything I’ve learned over my life in political movements, though, it’s that we’re not getting that guy. That being the case, I’d infinitely prefer a President who’s grounded, loving, and not overly self-important — and also reasonably smart, and determined — to what we’ve seen too often in the past: Presidents who wear the mask and cape of that superhero, and are anything but. Welcome back, Mr. President.
In honor of Edgar Allan Poe’s Birthday and the release of the Edgar nominations list — okay, I’m a week late, these things take time — my Edgar-winning short story “Double-crossing Delancey” is available free for your Kindle for the next 3 days. Grab it now, while getting it free isn’t larceny!
Widely-spaced tree trunks,
Straight, proper, explode above
Into wild weaving.
Sharp new sun picks out
Each brick: red, ocher, orange,
Each white mortar line.
Cafe door opens.
Morning’s filled with coffee’s scent,
Murmur of voices.
