An article on Staten Island, with my comment at the bottom:

http://www.gothamist.com/2007/04/26/staten_island_p_1.php#comments

My daily quota has been misplaced. Instead, a quote:

"The aspect of the venerable mansion has always affected me like a human countenance, bearing the traces not merely of outward storm and sunshine, but expressive, also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and accompanying vicissitudes that have passed within. ... It consequently becomes imperative to make short work with most of the traditionary lore of which the old Pyncheon House, otherwise known as the House of the Seven Gables, has been the theme. With a brief sketch, therefore, of the circumstances amid which the foundation of the house was laid, and a rapid glimpse at its quaint exterior, as it grew black in the prevalent east wind-pointing, too, here and there, at some spot of more verdant mossiness on its roof and walls-we shall commence the real action of our tale at an epoch not very remote from the present day. Still, there will be a connection with the long past-a reference to forgotten events and personages, and to manners, feelings, and opinions, almost or wholly obsolete-which, if adequately translated to the reader, would serve to illustrate how much of old material goes to make up the freshest novelty of human life...

...There it rose, a little withdrawn from the line of the street, but in pride, not modesty. Its whole visible exterior was ornamented with quaint figures, conceived in the grotesqueness of a Gothic fancy, and drawn or stamped in the glittering plaster, composed of lime, pebbles, and bits of glass, with which the woodwork of the walls was overspread. On every side the seven gables pointed sharply towards the sky, and presented the aspect of a whole sisterhood of edifices, breathing through the spiracles of one great chimney, The many lattices, with their small, diamond-shaped panes, admitted the sunlight into hall and chamber, while, nevertheless, the second story, projecting far over the base, and itself retiring beneath the third, threw a shadowy and thoughtful gloom into the lower rooms. Carved globes of wood were affixed under the jutting stories. Little spiral rods of iron beautifed each of the seven peaks. On the triangular portion of the gable that fronted next the street was a dial, put up that very morning, and on which the sun was still marking the passage of the first bright hour in a history that was not destined to be all so bright."

And does the real live up to the actual? Not really:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:House_of_the_Seven_Gables_%28front_angle%29_-_Salem%2C_Massachusetts.JPG

On Being Lyrical

Crack of stick in the stillness of night.
Whispering of wet grass.
Fine-ground groveling of headphones.
Water into culvert.

Anne-Marie Sarah Twylin was well-loved. She had fine blonde hair that she put up in elaborate knots on Sundays. She wore dresses from the finest stores with matching socks and patent leather shoes. She was precocious without knowing it.

[ killed walking her dog]

innocent as cream

ghosts it out afterwards, haunting her boy friend by way of unrelieved pubescent hormone swirling longings

aabC-chim chiminey

1.

testing kitty-cats and oranges
make sweet moving porridges
and thick leaves and willow trees
quick take the packing off.

2.

dive-bombers and lillehammer
make endless vats of embalmer
not to mention high jumps
and falling off the bench.

3.

cucumbers are vegetables
warranties untestable
big red's incomparable
cuz their flavor's sweet!

4.

apple's smoke and apple's butter
the sailboat needs a new rudder
the hay needs cutting
boatmen's job, undefined.


Addendum:

Slicers and picklers,
didn't think cukes(!) were fruit.

Edward and Samuel

Click.
"Click," I said.
Yeah, click.
Don't beat the door down.
OK.
Click.
Stop that.
I see tulips.
Stop.
I see daffodils.
Stop.
The weather's getting warmer.
I'll open it in a minute.
But it might get cold again.
Just wait.
Click.
I see you, buttercups.
Click?
I'm not getting any younger.
And you're not getting any older.
And now: rap.
Stop that claptrap.
Oh, lordy.
Don't give me that.
You couldn't.
Is this hardwood?
No, its steel with a thin covering of wood.
So its veneer.
Yes, to be precise.
Click.
We're back to that?
What is holding you up?
I'm doing something back here.
I can't imagine what.
What are you so anxious for?
I am standing outside your door.
Obviously, but do you have anywhere to be?
The other side of this door.
Give up on the door.
Are you saying I should leave?
No, I wouldn't do that.
Then open the door.
You're not helping.
Stop being so cold.
I'm not cold.
Go look at the flowers.
I've done with that.
How can you be so sure?
I lost patience.
Put your back into it.
I'm gonna put my back into this door.
And where will that get you?
I might just have to find out.
Go ahead.
I will.
Can I suggest something?
What?
The hydrangeas.
I think I can suggest something.
Somewhere to put them?
Yes.
Come to think of it, would you mind watering them?
They need a special treatment.
You're right.
Of course I'm right.
Not always.
What are you so busy doing that you can still talk and not open the door?
Wouldn't you like to know?
I'm gonna try and break the door down.
I told you it was steel.
I'm going to find out if that's true.
I wouldn't.
You're lying.
No.
Then you're worried about me.
No.
I can't see how its not one of the two.
Your vision is limited.
Click.
Stop making that noise.
Does it bother you?
Not very much.
Click.
Click.
Tell me, what other flowers can you see?
I'm no longer interested in your garden.
Its a nice garden. I'm proud of it.
You would be.
You like the flowers just as much as I do.
I am more concerned about you letting me in right now.
About that, I'm not concerned.
I can see that.
Can I suggest something?
What?
The hydrangea.
Its very nice.
Do you think you can water it?
It needs a special treatment.
I think you're right.
I know I'm right.
I can't think of anything you could possibly be doing that
prevents you from opening.
You must not be the thinking type.
I'm not.
We agree.
So I might just bust this door down.
You'd hurt yourself.
Open up.
I'm busy.
You're just standing at the door.
That's not all I'm doing.
What else are you doing?
Something.
This is boring.
I'm not bored.
Let me in.
Not at all.
Then I'll leave.
We'll see.
You'll be back.
We'll see.

The Sight of A House

The sight of a house well thought of. There is nothing typical to describe because that is what I am trying to describe. On this, there is a pile of stones in the front yard, there is a large pine tree taking up one part of the lawn, an oak, another, and two bushes taller than a person on either side of the brick walkway until there is not much lawn. Its a corner lot and there is some mystery as to which is the front of the house.

The lawn is thick but not heavily manicured and its a darker green. The house seemed surprisingly small after I had walked around it. The trees shading it and the setback make it look larger. The siding is white, faux-clapboard of some point in the later half of the 20th century. The roof is pitched sharp. Something like a New England saltbox. When it was built it was probably dull, but surrounded by what it is, its exciting.