Wednesday, March 28, 2012

mdcxvii

     When mother comes to murder me I’ll be in the shower
                                                                      —Jim Behrle

My wings are tingling.  I have promised to call you.
I step in blindly.  But the phone keeps interrupting.
Text after text from the left.  Right?

Currently I feel good but I don’t know what best to do
with words.  Could it be that I want it?  This hamper
myself?  This less relevant (given the chance)?  Dust

in the wind.  All we are is a stack of books and a
long handwritten list (antique, almost) (all I am,
I mean).  And the evening and the morning were

Mazatlán.  Could somebody please tell me who I’m
talking to?  Is it the lady crossing Pine Street?  Or the
man at the drycleaners who always gives me peanuts?

I’m at a loss or am lost or am most likely just loss.
Currently I feel good.  To make me best.  A clothes
hamper in the hallway of some relevance.  A rainy

noontime.  More on this soon (given the chance).