when I looked into the sky I saw the planet venus way up high about as far as I can see without straining my neck I was looking out the kitchen window and admiring the summer in all its majesty and nakedness and I was wearing a pair of black-soled utility boots with snuggly yellow cotton socks on underneath my undershirt was the color of flowers my pants were revolutionary in design my underpants were striped and I bought them on sale sometimes I would hang them on a chair and my head would stare at them and start to drop, stare at them and start to drop and I was about to make pancakes and listen to pretty classical piano melodies each pancake would be composed in the shape of a different president�s head and I thought that I would start out with grover cleveland and drink a full bottle of raveneau chablis...mmm, yummy! and open the refrigerator door ten times in a row and slam it every time shut and say slam slam slam and I would sing each time: "frauen wie lauten" (women like lutes...) and draw a picture of a plate on the table the size of an apple pie pan and draw a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a television set with a word balloon coming out of it that says: "In the news today" and then I could say outloud: "what? what?" the next pancake would be lincoln there is an eternal home that I am near. I am not hungry there. oh my god! what if I don�t like pancakes there, now this could be bad, possibly, said lincoln if I changed my mind, I would do it. I remembered how once I was full completely and I could listen to my tree that I put in my kitchen. of course it is not saying anything, it just have leaves that fall down in the kitchen and make a little noise once in a while the holly lights the living room and the syrup is in the fridge and it is cold and frosty and yummy and content the jasmine smells beautiful as it wafts through the kitchen but the kitchens that have jasmine wafting through them are in northern california which is three thousand miles away the doctor says, this world is called discovering america the syrup is called a live-in lover on the cover of popular mechanics is a picture of a bright red heart and I am now on my hands and knees and I am drawing a picture of a woman with the face that says, quite simply, cri de coure remaking the world, I think I unbutton my shirt so I can feel the splendor of pancakes. it is so quiet this morning outside and in. the music is the only sound, but it is so quiet I can�t tell if there is any at all. I misspell it and when I hear a knock on the door and I ask "who" it is and a voice says "what" I quickly reply: "we don�t want any"
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