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“Imagine the Moon as Companion,” by Eric Robert Nolan

Imagine the moon as companion,

and it will bring you ease on sleepless nights.

Smile at its quiet path,

its torpid, bright accord of lighted arc,

as though its delaying were willful –

-its timeless passage ponderous

to pass the time with you.

For if you find the moon familiar,

it will do what all true friends do:

it will ever smile back.

And, no matter what the world’s disorders,

what woes will weight your days and bind your nights to waking,

what griefs will clamor after you at night in heavy voices, as laden refrains in your heart,

what other departures, when lights you know in other hearts revolve and fall away in their own other, foreordained arcs,

the moon will always return to you.

The moon is more certain than even your own sorrows.

Think about it.

Light is infrequent in space — in existence.

Think about the unlikeliness of it …

the moon’s honorarium of precious metal,

moving and unvarying among measureless cold spaces to find you as it elegantly burns.

It’s almost inconceivable –eternity is mostly darkness, yet

your little corner of night’s nigh infinite black is made a rare and argent, kindled silver,

meant uniquely for you,

as bright, and nearly as beautiful, as you are.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2020

Rudolphous / CC BY-SA (

LIFE imitates ART?!

One of these is my long-haired pandemic giant nerd head.

One of these is Katsushika Hokusai’s “The Great Wave Off Kanagawa” (color woodblock, 19th Century Edo period). YOU CAN’T TELL THE DIFFERENCE CAN YOU?


One of these things is not like the others.

McCain. Obama. Romney. Hillary Clinton. Bush, Jr. Bill Clinton. Bush, Sr.

Any one of these people would do a better job addressing violence in American cities than Donald Trump.

It isn’t a question of ideology. It’s a question of whether we have a grownup in charge or a demagogic, gibbering imbecile who enjoys pitting us all against one another.

&*$# Trump.

I Didn’t Realize Her Parents Had Money


By John Grey

I look up at the north side of a huge frame house,
twice as wide, as high, as the one I live in,
rough pine shingles
brown with cream trimmings,
stained glass windows,
cupolas, cornices,
an architect’s history lesson.

How do you knock on the door of such a place?
What right has this fist?
A circular alcove, dark entrance –
this is not the way
to any place that will have me.

“When I’m not writing, I get anxious.” – the writer

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Wow. 40.

Hey, gang — thank you for all of the kind, funny and thoughtful well wishes for my birthday yesterday! You guys are the greatest!!

40 is a big year — and a big milestone — but you all made it a little easier for me to process. Love ya!!

[Update: Certain nefarious actors are perpetrating the HOAX that I am 48. This is FAKE NEWS. SAD!!]