And here I am watching some long-haired kid take small puffs of cigarette quickly tap-tap-tap the ash with thin fingertip and quickly again another puff. Tap-tap-tap.
I have failed. The ringing in my ears. “Patience, my love. What comes next can’t be worse than what we have now.”
Try on a new chair at Design Within Reach. A basketball nearly smashes a little dog (what’s the name of this park near Fillmore?). Massage appointment, Persepolis, wandering thoughts, watching the maids clean the mailboxes on Pierce Street.
The neighbor’s window is a mirror. There I am, the same cat, at a very young age (kitty), eating dinner, second meal I’ve ever cooked: zucchini and bell peppers stirred over mockingbird pasta. Bellisima. Cut him out of your heart. Cut him out completely.
Nice white stripe on your wristwatch. Bury it with me will ya? Woke up this morning on vacation and carrot pudding. Kept wondering how important this was with arthritis, nearly chopped off. Sniff. Imagine money. Sniff. If you only knew how much I would love you. Sniff sniff.
Try and get something grab up at me. Good for nothing half- ass style poetry with meatball soup. Please. I am good for nothing. I really meant to say I don’t want to be a student anymore. I am your stud ent. Blah. I am nothing nobody’s meat ball. The day is a beautiful shut up he’s opening the window. I am good for bread and taxi. Three men under sun gesticulating broadly. One-up tax day. Laundry and dishes done. Fireman round the corner. Purple bow. I been there. Ice cube next to Rendero’s Trucking Services blocking the sun. Let’s get up and leave. A protest. Protests never work. Haha. Last night I dreamt I was kidnapped and shot three times once by myself when one of the kidnappers threw me a gun. He said I was burgeoning. HUMMINGBIRDS.
The Black-eyed Susans are everywhere. It came to us via “pegging porn” –
Hold out, you have no yoga!
Yeah, I’m the dead man you can see right through me on this park bench on Commercial Street. Very amazing sushi. Trying to sell a car. Date last night (presumably the last one).
Timing. So one full week now. You lost your sense of humor. No mail yet. A makeshift bed with Madame Bovary and green tea (reciprocity).
She’s rubbing his head, smoking a cigar. It’s peace.
Trying again to sell the car. First response: “You son of a bitch your mother birth dog jerks” or somesuch.
“Wouldn’t that be funny we hook up?”
Oh, also I saw Orion for the first time. Good omen.
Each sentence exploded in my head so I looked away to the pinkening azalea and the gaping orchid. Then I poured it over all of my friends so they would feel better.
He cried and it made me want to kiss him.
Don’t walk away with the romance (down the hallway). Stay right here to keep it going. The attic fan is on. I buffed the floors (his mother did).
The cup of coffee wasn’t meant to be. Down today, wept last night (no kisses). 860 Bush Street, Apartment 603.
The point is I want happy really fucking in my mind even afterwards keeping it ignorant as time goes over to a new place. The point is
Things I think I am good at. Like looking at your face one last time. Where did you go all these years? The star atop Harry Danton’s Starlight Room spins democratically— then the phone rings. Don’t answer it! You came back under the orange pipes for fire emergency. We had a fire years ago. The bathroom towels, the ones on the very bottom, still hold a trace of it, like smoked ham or turkey. An airplane streaks through a gorgeous sky, looking something like a grass spider. I used to waken to them walking across the ceiling. Grass spiders on ceilings? Perhaps not, but gray ones. Spiders build webs, trap other bugs, suck the life out of them. It’s only a memory. You mean the world. Some worlds may be greater than others, easier to recognize. There are new commitments to make, to try and keep, new gems to unearth and forget, different languages to learn. A few new faces to trace. I love them all.
Had a terrific line in my head while exercising last night! Can’t remember it sitting next to a mirror at Coco500. Can’t think anything at all except how I’ve aged. Today’s feast is no more poetry than this burger. Coffee’s brewing: Dunkin’ Donuts for Old Boston (Ed Barrett’s and mine). And then I’m in Berkeley— Shan Chat House, I could be wrong with the name. Indian, cheap and delicious. Saturday morning, new materials for shirt-making, Frjtz with David, Central Y for racquetball, veggie samosas, three handjobs (same hand), fish & chips and the Galaxy Theater for Baran. Amazing. Now I’m watching the baby sleep, doesn’t look like I’ll get any cheek tonight. Making lists my answer. How are you?
