Thursday, December 15, 2011


The fencerow practically belches honeydew.   I’ve
started taking a fat-burner called Ventilean; a new
ephedra substitute, it has guarana and who knows
what else.   Guarana tends to make my throat
fill up with bile.   This is Tuesday, right?

My usual list of things to do, like laundry
and dishes, turned into a misunderstood
invitation.   “Visit with you” was somewhere
on the list.   There is no hierarchy of any kind,
no order of priority.   It’s often nothing more than a

collage.   Like the tumbled mess of brussels sprouts
and chicken apple sausage on this white plate (a
4am snack I’m still working on).   I eat a sprout.
I scratch a line onto a page.   A new page a day.
I look back to see lines I’m told are unusually

through a few items on each page.
Something happens.   I’ve often sat through
drawn-out critiques of the ‘list-oriented.’
It’s raining, it’s 5:40am, I’ve a laptop open
to pictures of our trip to Paris.   I turned 40

there.   It was my first trip abroad.   I’m so
in love.   It happens every day, even with
windshield wipers for a memory.   I haven’t
run in years.   Nor the gym.   Maybe tomorrow.
My ears are ringing.   But pleasantly.   I’ve

in front of me: a glass filled with orange juice,
a pickle jar half full of water, and a mug with a
moustache on it that has a few dregs of tea.
Chamomile.   I add artificial sweetener (2
Splenda) and two squirts of lemon.