Thursday, March 08, 2012

mdciii

...but when a hurricane blows into town you don’t
notice the breeze any longer, does it even exist?
                                                    —Kevin Killian

Ensconced in Schuyler letters.  Something in me
I can’t quite let out (envision mystery steam).  A
block away something fantastic is happening.

Otto says he loves days like these, he closes his eyes
to the cool breeze and imagines he’s flying.  We’re
walking up the hill from Woody Allen who is

taunting us with namedropping and literary trivia
designed to both skewer and embrace the
bourgeoisie.  He never catches up with us.

We’re discussing inevitability.  I mean infidelity.
In the future I won’t watch Nip / Tuck but instead
Battlestar Gallactica.  I wait months between

each of the last several episodes, not wanting to
finish.  Later, I chat with my aunt in Missouri.
She’s pacing in front of a storm cellar watching

wood fall from the sky (and reporting such via
status update).  A few miles from her, Joplin gets
blown away.  Back in outer space, where weather

doesn’t exist, we’re discussing irreconcilible.
And Indonesia.  The funeral full of women
with whom he’d been ‘unfaithful’ (was this

my father or a movie?) and crying buckets
(which is what we’re doing presently at
Cafe Mason).  The super sexy Italian waiter

still works here, I think.  I call the other
Larry to wish him a happy 25th birthday.
My hand and fingers feel crampy as I

stare at a bottle of wine.  I concur, it’s
nice weather we’re having.  I don’t fly,
but just sort of lean into the cool breeze.