In A Puddle Of Rose Petals?

I love to eavesdrop.


Some may thinks this is wrong, or rude 


And by the way, is that woman nude?


I can't help it. 


I eavesdrop respectfully...what's a playwright to do? 


Sometimes, I want to jot things down, 
it's a memory thing, but can never seem to find a damn pen 
which is sorry for a writer but 


so what?


Like the woman I heard the other night,


Yea, I was drinking Chardonnay in a gay bar at 3 am. So what?


or two women talking


So, I know this really nice guy. He's a radiologist.
Okay. What else? replied the other.


The guy walking down the street in SoHo a few years back, I just can't forget him,stood on the sidewalk with the dumb-baseball-hat-to-the-side look, ranting at a woman with him


I just wanted some fucking peace
JUST SOME FUCKING PEACE! 


I crossed the street...


Chatting with a painter at a loud, noisy gathering.
We were talking about art 
and children 
and vibrators? 
although not in connection with each other, 
it was one of those wonderful, twisty talks, 
here there 


when she landed with this,


If I'm outdoors, near water, painting... I can't help it. 
At some point I strip off my clothes and go skinny-dipping... 


Sounds logical to me. 


I've returned to my roots: listening and jotting. 

and sitting on the sofa watching the sun make squares on the rug.

PS.


This is "Stormy, The old dog in the truck" 

soon to be a motion picture...


Claire and I met him on Friday outside the health food store. Stormy's been on This Being Alive since Friday... (I had no idea). 


This old dog didn't say much, at least not with spoken word,
but he had a very very Zen vibe, unbelievable really, 
so Zen, we wanted to bring him home, 


and maybe sit at his feet in a puddle of rose petals?