Baller of the Week

Read: Oh Christ I just wanted you to fuck me and then I became greedy, I wanted you to love me

...Ladies and....er, Ladies, Tracy Emin.

I just found out about this brilliant artist and am wondering where she has been all my life.

The Senses of a Burlington Spring

(Photo and writing by Meredith Rivlin)

It snows in spring here too
when forsythia recalls foliage
and tulips bloom the rusty red
of fall when we
don't want to dread what comes next
and we sing and believe
when Simon and Garfunkel tell us
the green leaves will turn brown.

It snows in spring here too,
long after we've put away
boots and fleece and
wool and liners;
and long after we can't
remember the cold
digits turned purple from red
to white and back to purple again.

It snows here in spring.
Mid-spring, actually,
when you still need a blanket and
maybe to close the window at night.
But during the day as you ride
your bike uphill--
always up-Goddamn-hill--
a gust will spread the dandelion seeds.

And when it snows here in spring
it's just a flawed simile
because these seeds will replant
themselves in fertile soil and,
new, will soak up sunlight and live
on to have their seeds
blown in a gust of wind
or by someone making a wish or
trying to remember what wet snow smells like
but can't.
But the snow will stop. And start. And melt.
And thaw. And I wonder,
for another four months,
is it really connected?

simple pleasures.

Sometimes it's nice to take a step back...

Morning Watch
The percolator is a gurgling alembic
brewing the morning's sputtering slick.
I bask in the coffee's simple balm.
For once I'll be wise and forgo
turning to the company of the radio,
the world's hourly news and see
if the goldfinch and the chickadee
will come to our feeder,
to our coffee-brown sunflower seed.
I'll accept the responsibility of being calm.
I'll pay attention to the small creatures,
to their broadcast and morning need.
This morning I will pay special heed.
-Greg Delante