h/t William Wegman’s Dropping Milk.
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Chip is dog-crazy. All he ever thinks about is dogs. All he ever talks about is dogs.
While shelving books at my job today, I came across this little gem, which was written and photographed by William Wegman, of Weimaraner fame.
The books is decidedly odd and absolutely hilarious. Chip’s mom is the best part of the book. My co-worker and I were having trouble muffling our shrieks of laughter.
(Reading Two Books, 1971)
Snack, snack, a midnight snack, Chundo had a snack.
William Wegman, Massage Chair, 1972