The King of Pop has ceased to be.

Fatness

The fat man zipped past me in the supermarket the other day (not the gentlemen in the picture above).

The agility with which he handled his scooter--going in and out of aisles, moving around the other customers, negotiating turns and so on--both amazed and saddened me. I wondered at what point he decided for himself that walking was just too much of a hassle. Then I wondered how he bathed himself and if he made sure to clean between the folds of skin.

De Profundis

"I am the ultimate phase of the poetic temper on the way to becoming a sort of reformer on a small scale..."

Not really. In fact, more likely the converse: a little maggot hoping one day to become a fly.

Are maggots able to lead a poetic existence?

Moving along, it occurred to me this morning while walking to work that there are two kinds of people: meter maids and poets. The meter maids of the world live a life of rules and efficiency. They move swiftly among us, enforcing their code, making sure our wheels are cramped toward the curb, checking our registration stickers, occasionally measuring the distance between our tires and the curb. I am a meter maid, but don't take my job all that seriously.

The poets, on the other hand, live their lives amassing citations. Hundreds of little yellow envelopes accumulate on their windshield until one day their cars are towed away.