Algebra of Night: No. 9, A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island

The Sun woke me this morning loud and clear, saying “Hey! I’ve been trying to wake you up for fifteen minutes. Don’t be so rude, you are only the second poet I’ve ever chosen to speak to personally

so why aren’t you more attentive? If I could

burn you through the window I would to wake you up. I can’t hang around here all day.”

“Sorry, Sun, I stayed up late last night talking to Hal.”

“When I woke up Mayakovsky he was a lot more prompt” the Sun said petulantly. “Most people are up already waiting to see if I’m going

to put in an appearance.”

I tried

to apologize “I missed you yesterday.”

“That’s better” he said. “I didn’t

know you’d come out.” “You may be wondering why I’ve come so close?”

“Yes” I said beginning to feel hot wondering if maybe he wasn’t burning me anyway.

“Frankly I wanted to tell you I like your poetry. I see a lot

on my rounds and you’re okay. You may not be the greatest thing on earth, but you’re different. Now, I’ve heard some say you’re crazy, they being excessively calm themselves to my mind, and other crazy poets think that you’re a boring reactionary. Not me.

Just keep on like I do and pay no attention. You’ll

find that people always will complain about the atmosphere, either too hot or too cold too bright or too dark, days too short or too long.