What if everything gets dreadfully redundant
and/or boring? – a perfunctory echo I’ve mis-
treated while refusing to meet friends for cocktails.
Five years later I’m looking at pictures from Boston.
The city grew by erection. I repeat the part about Sunday.
It’s Sunday. It’s six in the morning.
“Reach in my chest and massage my heart.
I am not dead.”
—James Schuyler
I ran after work, rather than in the middle of it. Otto cooked a
cloud for the rest of the week. The apartment is done, like the
rest of the day; a Vitamin Water in the sink. Kenneth Koch’s
glasses are upside down but the sun is almost up. The ring
in my ears is a reverie of birds. Or a flight returning from
Hawaii.
I feel lazy without my voice. The ring swarms my ears. Am I
maybe a fossil? Kevy’s posting sick links. Lanford Wilson
passed away; a soft spot in my heart for living his elderly
priest in Angels Fall at 21 years of age.
Hopped a trolley, reading uphill. Had lunch with Nick
at our Chinese place on Kearny and it turns out he had a
romantic date on Friday night. He kept saying it was surreal.
Goodbye Chinese restaurant on Kearny. With all the ugly
fish in the window. Goodbye childhood, so to speak. I get a
haircut. A reminder of the 80s (as told by the 90s). She chopped
one sideburn off and left the other. It’s okay, though. I’m the
devil for Halloween.
