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 Galactica. 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.
