14th St Gold - Spring 2007: Writing by Retired Adults from the 14th St Y

14th Street Gold

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NY Writers Coalition Press

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14 Street Gold Writing by Retired Adults from the 14th Street Y Spring 2007

NY Writers Coalition Press 3

Copyright © 2007 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor/ layout: Deborah Clearman 14th Street Gold contains writing by the members of a creative writing workshop for retired adults conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. at the 14th Street YMYWHA at 344 East 14th Street.

NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that provides free creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 80 Hanson Place #603 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org

The Educational Alliance, founded in 1889, is a communal institution dedicated to the strength and vigor of the Lower East Side, the Jewish community and all its neighbors. Through its programs and services, the Alliance serves all people regardless of religion, color or national origin—the old and the young, the sick and the poor, the disabled and the homeless—and provides support for the enhancement and continuity of the Jewish community. The 14th Street YMYWHA, a vital part of the Educational Alliance, provides Lower Manhattan with a Jewish Community Center that offers programs for the whole community.

The 14th Street YM-YWHA 344 East 14th Street New York, NY 10003 (212) 780-0800 www.edalliance.org

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CONTENTS HOME Myra K. Baum..………...……...……………...9 IN THE CARDS Katy Morgan……..…………..……..10 WAITING Syd Lazarus.………………………..……12 LIVING WITH LOUIE Allen Raymon...……………14 GUILTY PLEASURE Eileen D. Kelly.……….…..…17 MY GREATEST FEAR Muriel Gray…….…….……18 IT’S JUST A TRICK Ed Goldsmith...……...……......20 POLITICS AND WALKING Bob Rosen….………...23 I AM Lorraine Beyer Theordor…….………….…….….27 A PERSONAL STORY Lorraine Beyer Theordor..…27 WANTED Eileen D. Kelly……….………..…………28 UNION SQUARE Katy Morgan……………………..31 THE COINCIDENCE Muriel Gray…………...……..34 RAW IN TENDER PLACES Suzanne Lapka…...…...36 A HAPPY TIME Allen Raymon………………….…..39 BABY SPRING Deborah Clearman…….……………41 MANHATTAN ISLAND Lorraine Beyer Theordor…42 THE LITTLE RED MOUSE Syd Lazarus…………...43 EXQUISITE CORPSE IN AUTUMN The Group…...44 6

INTRODUCTION This fourth issue of 14th STREET GOLD celebrates the incredibly lively and enduring workshop for retired adults at the 14th Street Y. We have been gathering to write together once a week for nearly four years now, and have weathered many storms, scaled many peaks, said hello’s and goodbyes, shed some tears, written thousands of words, and eaten thousands of Little Schoolboy cookies. Maybe it’s the input of all that chocolate—our writing has grown in depth and grace.

As writers and artists we strive to delve into the murky territory of our subconscious, teasing up thoughts and feelings by means of surprise writing prompts. Recently we tried out the exquisite corpse technique made famous by the French Surrealists. Each of us contributed to “Exquisite Corpse In Autumn” a sentence at a time, folding the paper to conceal what we had written and passing it along. The results will show you what our obsessions were in late November!

To compliment our writing, we created exquisite corpse drawings, by folding and drawing a body part at a time.

These hilarious characters march in a zany parade through 14th STREET GOLD. Thanks go to Camille Diamond and the staff at the Y, without whose support we couldn’t thrive, to Aaron Zimmerman, Executive Director of NY Writers Coalition, and to all the members of this wonderful workshop who keep me charged up from week to week.

Deborah Clearman, Workshop Leader March, 2007 7

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HOME Myra K. Baum Edge of the road Where I live now Is a narrow place Between All Gone Life And One Not Yet Born Life's companion Absent Daily airings Of major and minor Absent Broadening of self Through another's love Absent Slipping over the Edge Retreating, recovering Again and again Growing the unborn New Life

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IN THE CARDS Katy Morgan When I was young, and trying to be a beatnik…

This was before there were hippies, or yippies, or weathermen…even before children were beaten back from the schoolhouse door, before Woolworths’ lunch counter became a racial battleground, even before Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on the bus…

When I was young and sat around drinking wine in basement apartments by candlelight, and listening to Edie Piaf on LPs… Ten years after the time I am speaking of, I would become, by default, a sort of superannuated hippie, get arrested in protest demonstrations, throw away my bra and learn all the words to “Guantanamera…”

But when I was still very, very young, and my whole ambition was to come to New York, write poetry, and be a beatnik...

I came to New York, in those halcyon days. I shared a one-room apartment on Greenwich Avenue with my girlfriend (we took turns sleeping on the couch…there was no bed), wore my hair long and tied back in a ponytail, and frequented the coffee houses on MacDougal Street.

We sat around in semi-subterranean rooms listening to would-be poets recite their work, and snapping our fingers in appreciation. We drank what passed for espresso by candlelight (once I happened to glance into the kitchen at the moment when the waiter 10

was spooning Medaglia d’Oro instant espresso into the little cups), and when a gypsy (or so she called herself) offered to tell our fortunes, we went for it.

The gypsy inspected my palm, consulted her Tarot cards, and told me with absolute conviction that I was going to get married the next day.

I believed her...sort of…about as much as I believed the espresso was real and the poetry good. So I was faintly surprised when the whole next day went by and nothing resembling a wedding happened to me.

In fact, it was to be another twenty-five years before I stood up a City Hall to marry the amiable fellow I was then to divorce three years later. And that remains my one and only matrimonial venture.

And yet, I somehow still have a feeling, deep down in my heart, that there was something in those Tarot cards…

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WAITING Syd Lazarus Not all of us are sick in this large waiting room. Some are here for check-ups, shots, and other mundane things. Some very sick are waiting for an emergency room doctor—our partners and owner parents filling out the necessary paperwork. It’s amazing how we all get along in this room—dogs, cats, birds, a squirrel and pot-bellied pig—waiting patiently, being admired and petted by the humans waiting. A K-9 dog with his policeman partner, a beautiful golden guide dog. It’s very quiet considering how busy it is—no barks, meows, or squawks. Most sensitive to those of us who are truly ill. Doctors rushing around and announcements over a loud speaker—just like any big city hospital. Please don’t cry, I say to my human. The doctors are good here.

They call out our name.

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LIVING WITH LOUIE A Conversation with Allen Raymon I, Louie, am a graduate of the Seeing Eye School. I was in the top five in my class. As a seeingeye dog I have a tremendous responsibility which I accept gracefully. I carefully read the ad Octavio and Brad placed. The last two words in the ad clinched it for me; “Labrador preferred.”

Most people I meet in the elevator pet me or even hug me. My plush dark brown hair is soft to the touch. I sense when we arrive in the lobby. This is when I do not respond to being touched. My work begins as I lead Octavio out and away.

I like going to parties and meetings ‘cause there is always food. I watch my manners. No jumping up unless a piece of food is offered to me. Or better still, if someone drops a piece which I grab before O.&B. move on. I must tell you O.&B. look out for my interests.

Octavio and Brad exercise like crazy. I like watching them. An alert goes up when Octavio goes to yoga. I position myself under the table facing him.

When the instructor pushes Octavio to make a point, I rise to standing position and, if necessary, help him.

This gives me some stress. (When Octavio was getting a massage I walked around the roof with Allen, who gave me a massage, for which I gave him a kiss on each hand.)

Time marches on for me. I notice around my mouth grey hairs. I refuse to dye them. I will be thirteen next March. When I cash in my 401 and go to the Caribbean, I will live in Santo Domingo with Octavio’s mother. Brad wants you to know that the reason I don’t 14

respond when someone calls my name sometimes is because I am getting hard of hearing.

The folks in The Aurora tell me it is a pleasure to have me living here. They say I am very special.

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GUILTY PLEASURE Eileen D. Kelly I started reading the column several years ago.

Did I do so in response to the political situation of the country or disappointment with our leaders, or something noble like that? I’d like to say it was, but it wasn’t. It was simply the pleasure of reading the column and finding my name not there among the obituaries. Yes, the obituaries.

Sometimes I look at the age of the person and feel happy that I’m older than the deceased, and I’m still here. I like it when they give a cause of death, so I can say, “Well, I don’t have that!” I don’t like when it says, “unknown cause,” since I might have that. Other times I see where a woman has died, leaving a husband, someone about my age. Then I’m tempted to find out where he lives and bring him a casserole. I could then get to know him and eventually go out with him. I never do it though; it’s just a fantasy.

Mostly I’m just glad to see that none of my family or friends is listed there, nor am I. Sometimes I think of writing to the Editor to thank him for sparing me, one more day. But I never do.

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MY GREATEST FEAR Muriel Gray An ancient Eastern philosopher suggested that the proper curse for your enemies would be to wish that they are permanently engaged in a lawsuit. In today’s climate of endless litigation that is my greatest fear. Raised to be terminally polite, I have given up and retreated to safety. In the Irish neighborhood where I grew up it was “the Will of the Lord” that allowed us to accept adversity. Not any more; a scapegoat must be found for every problem.

Each day people carrying large packages in addition to their backpacks, bump into me. On a good day I only weigh a hundred pounds, but surely at five feet three inches I could be noticed. It seems that New York has become a city of camels. If the Lord actually gave these thoughtless walkers a Hump Back, they would all be suing their Health Insurance Provider to have it removed.

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IT'S JUST A TRICK Ed Goldsmith The above title was given out to us writers as a stimulus for written material by our group leader, and here is my response to that: I have two main thoughts on it. One is my active interest in performance magic, and two, my suspicion that religion in its earlier stages incorporated some sleight of hand.

Look, people are stupid for the most part. Look at what has resulted from the great experiment in representative government in the United States. We have incompetent nitwits "running" our cities, states and the country itself. You let the common folk vote for their leaders, and they vote for seductive morons or unscrupulous knaves. And if a smooth talker has magical skills, but does not advertise them, and instead attributes unexpected and dramatic effects to the power of some putative deity, there is a sizable portion of society who will buy it. Healing water at Lourdes, tears from a portrait of some so-called Saint, holy water used during an exorcism are some examples of things like this that cross my mind.

As a long time member of magical societies, I have even met a Catholic clergyman, Father C. who is into the brotherhood, as well as two rabbis whom I see often at a weekly lunch group which I frequent from time to time.

If you recall, assuming that you read the Bible, while Moses and Aaron appeared before the Pharaoh, there was a trick in which a wooden staff was transformed into a snake. This was duplicated by the Pharaoh's court magicians. However, later Moses' staff20

snake ate up the Egyptian staff-snakes, implying that Moses' magic was greater than that of the Egyptian court magicians.

I was also present at a storefront church in the East Village years ago, where the "clergyman" or whatever pretended to read the written questions on folded billets, questions written by members of the congregation. Not only was I wise to the secret workings of that stunt, but even my associate, to whom I described the event later, a non-magician, was wise to how it was done! I did not have to explain the method to him. He knew it already.

Now, what if all religions were based on simple trickery and fraud? A scene from Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court comes to mind, where Bing Crosby, in the film version, goes back in time, and knows beforehand of the time of a full eclipse of the sun, and, dishonestly, takes credit for causing it to occur. Many members of the Skeptics group, which include James Randi, the escape artist, are drawn to this conclusion. During the period of time that Uri Geller claimed to be bending spoons by telekinesis, I bought a gimmick at my favorite magic shop to do the same trick by sleight of hand. Houdini, many years ago, built a reputation on exposing the methods of fraudulent mediums.

I'm not declaring that all religion is based on fraud, but I do know several clergymen who perform magic tricks. Hmmm. I do know this: Were I a rabbi, I would not let my congregants know that I was also a magician.

In fact I recall Yossie, an orthodox rabbi I studied with years ago, stated that it is permissible to perform a trick provided the magician reveals the secret 21

afterward. Now this exposure is a violation of the magicians' code of ethics, and grounds for expulsion from the brotherhood.

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POLITICS AND WALKING Bob Rosen Natasha walked every morning and as I walked south along the river she would pass me and wave hello. An elderly woman living in my building had hired her as a combination housekeeper and nurse. It seemed to be working out well. Natasha was a tall blonde well-built Russian, typical, you might think, of the images we saw in our newspapers. She was not, however, of the peasant class. Her walking kept her in great shape, and if I got to a certain point in life I would have been more than happy to have my own version of her wheeling me around.

“You walk every morning like I do?” she asked.

“Well, I try to get out every day and burn off some energy, so if you don’t mind, I’ll try to keep up with you.” It wasn’t easy, as she took long rapid strides, pumping her arms in rhythm.

“You speak some Russian?” she asked.

The only Russian I knew was by watching Danny Kaye movies. His parents were from the Ukraine but his Russian was made up Hollywood gibberish. My grandparents came from the same area, and for Jews living there it was either being drafted into the army or getting out anyway possible. It was a death sentence: the Red Army was commanded by dedicated anti-Semites. Down the road it was the Gulag for dissidents or going west through a crumbling Poland.

By now Natasha was hitting her stride and I was straining to keep up. My legs were begging me to stop and sit down. “How long have you been here?” I asked.

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Putin. In just ten years Russia became two different worlds. Yeltsin was a drunk but a happy drunk. He never tried to be the savior of his country the way Mikhail Gorbachev tried. Even Thomas Jefferson would never become a hero in Russia. You could disagree with the politicians and read a newspaper that wasn’t a parrot for the government. Sometimes you had to wait on line for bread or sugar. For Vodka?

Never. You were better off being slightly drunk. It was like taking drugs and just floating in space. The oil millionaires, mostly Yeltsin’s supporters, drove around in Rolls-Royces and threw one hundred dollar bills around by the fistful while old ladies wearing babushkas swept the streets with corn brooms. My husband was a famous circus clown in the Mirinsky Circus. When the rich and famous visited Moscow his high wire act was at the top of the bill. He wore a silly pointed hat, always with an umbrella in his hand for balance, and funny turned up shoes, the kind that Aladdin’s genie wore when he escaped from the bottle. Escape unfortunately was not in the cards for us. We were among the privileged national treasures.

We actually had our own apartment so that our two girls didn’t have to share our bedroom and we shopped at special food shops with more than just the basic items that most Muscovites had to make do with.

My husband would say that he was one of the two greatest clowns in Moscow. The other was Boris Yeltsin. And his circus buddies would laugh. Be careful, he was warned. Putin was just over the horizon. One day he was taken to the Kremlin for an interview. Six months passed with no word from him.

The mayor of Moscow, a powerful politician, told me that he might be rehearsing his act somewhere else.

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“My sister living in New York got me and my two children out. God bless her husband! It cost him a fortune in bribes but I’m here and working and walking every day, so come along, walk faster.

Mischa, which was my husband’s name, told me a joke the last time I saw him. It was about a clown who falls off a high wire one hundred feet up above the crowd. Twenty-five feet down he says, ‘So far so good!’

Fifty feet down he says, ‘So far so good!’

Seventy-five feet down he says, ‘So far so good!’

Then he doesn’t say anything. Some day in Russia we will all be that clown.”

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I AM Lorraine Beyer Theordor I used to be the color of the rainbow I twirled and sparkled and danced like a free spirit Now I am quietly practical and savor each raindrop as I walk softly through the foggy spaces of life.

And though I’ve no longer need of thunderous passion and have forgotten some of the words, I still remember with great warmth, the sounds of Billy Eckstein and Lady Day as they sang the blues A PERSONAL STORY Lorraine Beyer Theordor Long, quiet nights leave too much room to dwell on past mistakes, which in turn, make for sleepless nights.

My days are divided between unwanted visits to the doctor, unschooled talent and wild imagination at the Fourteenth Street Y, with a fierce need to captivate.

A relentless and passionate story for one my age.

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WANTED Eileen D. Kelly Two older women were staring at my picture on the “Wanted” board at the Post Office. One said to the other, “What’s she wanted for?”

The other lady said, “I heard that she lied about her age on Match.com.”

“That’s such a big crime? Everyone does that!” said the first woman.

I quietly watch and listen to everyone’s remarks there, and want to scream out, “All I want is to be wanted!” How was I to know that the Genie in the bottle whom I told it to, would take it literally and put it on this poster. Stupid Genie. I shoved him back in the bottle. I don’t think this “Wanted” poster is going to get me any dates. The Genie took the photo from my latest driver’s license. What a horror! I wanted him to use a ten-year-old one.

Thank god no one recognizes me in this Muslim outfit I’m wearing; the hijab sure covers a lot.

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UNION SQUARE Katy Morgan The little boy is maybe two years old. He’s too big for his stroller, but clearly his mother has lost patience with trying to get him to hold her hand and not go toddling off to investigate every dog turd, so she has plopped him in his stroller, and strapped him in.

The kid kicks and screams. He twists and lunges, determined to get free somehow. His face is red, a huge mouth surrounded by tear-stained, scarlet flesh.

It’s hard to recognize this as a human creature, and the noise that emanates from it is truly unearthly.

His mother wisely ignores him. Just keeping a wary eye on the fastenings to be sure he really can’t wriggle free, she wheels the stroller across 14th Street and into the park.

After a few passes around the tree-shaded walks in the center of the park, the child finally grows tired, his screaming loses intensity, slows and finally stops.

He looks around him. There are squirrels making their treks to hiding places with large walnuts, then returning to the source, an old lady at the north end of the park.

Pigeons walk in patterns determined by breadcrumbs, and then by bowing, cooing males pursuing females.

Starlings and sparrows investigate gatherings of pigeons, hoping for leftovers.

The baby watches them all.

Then a little girl on a tricycle stops to stare solemnly at the little boy in his stroller. She is licking a chocolate ice cream cone.

“Ice cream!” cries the little boy. “Ice cream!”

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The mother, feeling benevolent by now, buys him a strawberry ice cream cone, his favorite. He licks at it with enormous, delighted glee.

A few minutes later, he has forgotten it, distracted by a pair of dachshunds. The cone slips from his grasp, lands upside down on the sidewalk.

The screams begin again.

With a sigh, the mother wipes her son’s face, gets up and wheels him away, leaving the cone, and the melting ice cream, to the dogs, squirrels, pigeons, starlings, sparrows and ants.

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THE COINCIDENCE Muriel Gray During one week in the year 2006, Betty Friedan, author of The Feminine Mystique, and playwright Wendy Wasserstein died. Wasserstein, young enough to be Friedan’s daughter, took up the cause for the rights of women in her career and her personal life. Friedan’s book was influenced by the famous treatise of the French philosopher, Simone De Beauvoir, called The Second Sex. Both tried to address the limitations facing contemporary women with homage to the past: De Beauvoir before World War II, and Friedan as a housewife of the 1950’s eager to use her college degree.

Coincidently, in that same week, Moira Shearer died too. She was the Scottish born, red haired ballerina who starred in the 1948 production of the movie “The Red Shoes.” A pinnacle of dance, music and color, filmed on the French Riviera, it is a classic.

It tells the story of a troupe patterned after the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, known for its use of costumes and scenery created by famous artists. The star falls in love with the young composer of the title ballet which causes her tragic end. The impresario of the troupe insists she choose between her career and her husband.

Young women of today would be astonished at such an arcane idea. They have no idea of the many closed doors facing women for centuries past. Women were considered as chattel and could not vote or own or inherit property. Even their children belonged to the male line. Respectable work for pay was almost nonexistent. Any serious student of history should 34

become cognizant of these topics. The loss of the three women at once throws a light on their special achievements, which illuminates these problems. Will the women of the future have the courage to be so insightful?

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RAW IN TENDER PLACES Suzanne Lapka Act II Scene I Setting: Double bed covered with clothes, magazines, newspapers, and the remnants of chocolate cake on a plate.

Time: Saturday late afternoon.

DONNICA is curled up on bed holding a cell phone.

DONNICA. I’m going to call him now. (Pause) He’s not a bastard. God, it’s ten years. (Breathing deeply) If he’s still in the same place….I have to do this in the first year of my new life. (DONNICA sings along with Billy Holiday) “In my solitude, you haunt me. Dear God above send back my love.” (LIGHTS change— brighter and then softer) Don’t let it set with me alone. (Eyes closed) His poetry, the lovemaking, acting in that amphitheatre, and the singing.

(On the cyclorama, slides of JONATHAN and DONNICA arguing with scripts in their hands. Then their bodies entangled. Next DONNICA in an amphitheatre. Followed by DONNICA and JONATHAN running in the rain.

DONNICA (punches in numbers, holding a script) It’s your Funny Valentine. Can we save the past, and create a future? The number’s the same. 675-8264. I need to hear from you. (Singing) “Don’t change a hair for me. Not if you care for me. Stay little Valentine.”

FADE to black.

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Scene II Setting: Upscale restaurant.

Time: 10 PM (Background music: Chris Botti’s “Embraceable You.” DONNICA and CHARLOTTE sit in a booth.

SPOTLIGHT) CHARLOTTE: So has he called?

DONNICA: No, but I’m going to wait a little longer.

CHARLOTTE: You said a week. The deadline has come and gone. Well?

DONNICA: Maybe he’s on vacation…

CHARLOTTE: Are you for real? Can you hear yourself? You waited for him before. What makes you think he’s changed?

DONNINCA: Remember when we were in Greece? I can see those cities. We breathed in those places. We didn’t have to speak.

CHARLOTTE: That was the past.

DONNICA: I still touch these extraordinary pictures.

CHARLOTTE: Stop! You sound like a character in one of those stupid soaps you played in. This is not college.

DONNICA: I know that better than you. Charlotte, you married Jim. When I look in Matthew’s eyes, I see him. When Jonathan asked me to marry him, I was so young. All I wanted was to perform. Now I need him to soften these raw places. I need an offstage life.

CHARLOTTE: Miss Sarah Bernhardt, don’t waste your time on this garbage. You’re living in a fairy tale world. Cinderella’s glass slipper is shattered. This doesn’t end happily ever after. You have to fill you up.

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(WAITER enters.)

WAITER: Is there anything else I can get you ladies?

BLACKOUT. Scene III Setting: DONNICA’S bedroom downstage right.

JONATHAN’S bedroom downstage left. Spot on each area.

Time: Midnight.

JONATHAN (on cell phone) I couldn’t sleep.

Donnica, you dropped a bomb. I need time to get my head around all of this.

DONNICA (masking her disappointment) I only want snow petals, not bombs.

(BLACKOUT downstage left. DONNICA holds her phone to her heart.) God I am so theatrical. (Smiles.)

BLACKOUT

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A HAPPY TIME Allen Raymon My eighth birthday was the best. I didn’t think so at the time. The preparations were completed the day before. My usual bedtime was 8:30 PM but on the day before not even slightly tired by 9:00. However was persuaded to lie down. Told I didn’t have to sleep, but within five minutes, deep asleep.

Aside from cake and cookies and soda, was told I could have as many ice creams as I wanted. I said two, hoping to be talked into three or four, but lost out on that one. Through begging and pleading was allowed to take one gift, opening same. The gift I selected was junior Detective. It came with a gun, belt with ammunition, official badge, and diploma where I could fill in my name. What interested me most was the finger printing.

Not only did I get it on my hands, face, and shirt, when I walked into the house all the adults screamed.

Cleaned up, rocking on the porch, waiting for the party, I had time to fantasize. I didn’t know most of the kids who were year-rounders, while I was a summer.

The cake and Coke were plentiful. Since it was my birthday, I had a captive audience for my poems. I tried to shush them. When that didn’t work, I shouted my two poems while standing on a chair. They looked up from time to time, but not with any enthusiasm.

P.S. They cleared out fast when there was no more cake or candy. At least I got more gifts, even if my people brought them.

What price innocence: What I miss about the past!

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BABY SPRING Deborah Clearman For Sam Green hat bunny ears pink cheeks yellow curls Green grass daffodils blue water lily pads Blue pants pink toes puffy clouds cold dirt Apple blossoms sidewalk strollers long ago green hat

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MANHATTAN ISLAND Lorraine Beyer Theordor Apartment for sale window with view facing a tree a window an alley away In the distance another tree a bus and another bus going uptown crosstown and downtown A red bus with tourists looking this way and that discovering this colorful sophisticated and depraved pie in the sky New York City

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THE LITTLE RED MOUSE Syd Lazarus Dedicated to anyone who has ever grieved for a pet.

It was hard to believe what I saw when I turned on the light as I entered my apartment—that little red mouse. I had given away all of their toys but couldn’t find the newest toy, a bright red toy mouse with a long tail. They had hidden it well. Now the mouse was on the floor in the middle of the room. It was not there when I left home.

I know you girls left it for me as a sign that you were still there with me. Seeing that mouse was an affirmation of all the love in the apartment. I know I loved you and that mouse proves that you loved me.

Thank you for the gift. I don’t think I will ever have another pet again, but I bless you for the seventeen years of love you each gave to me. That loving spirit will stay with me the rest of my life. Thank you for my little red mouse and I hope that you each have many of your own little red mice to chase in heaven.

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EXQUISITE CORPSE IN AUTUMN 14th Street Y Writers Running through the garden in the park filled with yellow autumn leaves made Charlie happy. The large duck walked in the garden. Crazily, crazily the stars are turning. Two more years. Heaven help us. Look at all the beautiful flowers! Watch the damn parade; it’s Thanksgiving. The kid upstairs is learning to play the bongos.

Thanksgiving turkeys rioted on 14th Street. The warm autumn weather is amazing. Paintings are stored in this room. She drank the wine, but left the apple on the table. Do you hear the music? Where is the gray cat?

The oversided cat was angry at the boys who taunted her. She walked away. Happiness goes on a life of their own. The riotous turkeys stormed Circuit City.

Peace on Earth, good will to men and women and children! The trees are blossoming. Splashing pages make sweet music. Can anyone play the game? Leave the cat alone.

She fell from heaven into a plate of chocolate mousse.

Wanna have a martini? Police arrested twenty rioting turkeys. “Merry Christmas” to those who wish to hear this saying. Coffee cups cover the writing table. He saw the end coming. These are the cards I was dealt.

The happy table was talking to the wine red planet.

The angry cat thought, I’ll get even with that dumb 44

dog. If I read two more chapters in the bookstore, I won’t have to buy the book. Don’t speak the speech so quickly. There is always an attention. The judge sentenced the turkeys to ten days of hard labor. The hot summer impacted on the holiday turkeys and this year they are very small. My mailbox is stuffed with catalogs.

The fiery moon was desperate to walk and said I can.

Couscous is like kasha, a grain that is eaten in Morocco. On Chanuka we’ll spin the dreidels. Hello out there. In jail the turkeys gobbled and squawked.

“Happy Holidays” to those of other denominations!

Christmas decorations are already in the stores. And they all crept silently into the night.

I did not dine; I danced to the tune of the violin, all the way to heaven—quite a melodious trip. I don’t think this is going to work very well. Simon said that’s the most stupid thing I ever heard of. Sam you made the pants too long or my legs are too short. They killed my daughter in Iraq. Haven’t we run out of paper? Two turkeys escaped and went to a vegetarian restaurant.

“Happy New Year to all.”

The noisy corpse will zoom afar. There must be violins in heaven. When did you get up this morning?

“Rats, I really screwed that up,” Joey thought to himself. The wind ripped the umbrella out of my hand and flew down the street. I want a lover. This just goes on and on. The escaped turkeys made pumpkin soup.

The peacock whistled at the curly rock. He meets his maker in the stars. Dance ballerina, dance! Four score 45

and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation. My back hurts so much I can’t stand it. I finally had a three dollar a cup coffee, so now I’m a trend setter or just stupid. Where is the present you promised?

The tall sofa raced the harmonious hell. I love my cup of herbal tea. The garden was full of rocks and shells.

Her worries come from deep within. The sun shines on this side of the street. Don’t tell anybody what I just told you. I really don’t want Chinese or Italian food; I want turkey.

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