I’m sure that we don’t always disagree. You agree to disagree. I’ve never known how to handle the inevitable. I’m all over the board, thrown for a loop. It
gives perspective (while also changing it). This whole ordeal helped shake things up. I was reminded, of course, of what I don’t want. I ask my remaining
friends if I’m a glass half empty kind of guy. Apparently, this scares more of them away. The whole combination is what I’m always trying to do, right? Like
you know. I sit on the plank that juts into the little pond. The sounds of water shake the world up. What’s left of it. Hours pass. I have
fallen in love with a tree that I cannot describe. There are occasional passers-by and there is my companion
who calls after each squirrel he sees. Grey squirrels. It is mostly peaceful and cloudy. He calls each of
As we were watching a slide show of our decade of glory, the record started to skip. And then it skipped and skipped. We decided to do everything (our vinyl hearts mashed into our lungs). Which is your glory decade? Perhaps it’s the one in polyester we never want to lose. Everything you worked so hard for. Before stagnation, I guess. Back when we needed to talk. Yesterday we tried to shake things up. Meticulously, we studied our optimism charts, even taping them to the ceiling and lying down on the floor. We were so sleepy that we were almost dreaming. You never wake up with sleepy in your eyes, and your hair, always mussed, always perfection. During the merger, your eyes twinkled like a light-
Interlocking rhythms weave the groove of life. —Kit Robinson
You, the alternatively literate. You there.
Do you have your big comfy chairs at the ready. Do you read me?
Work seemed hung. Half the space wanted to go very crowded, with gray suits, chatting about love and relationships. Then we
parted. I walked up the hill, chatting on the phone, looking for conversation. Company did not arrive. It had been over six months. Smelling like a cigar, I had a real bacon burger.
Well into another round, I wanted to go on about the drink. But the mood had shifted. It took a well-thought-out note and forty dollars to con- nect. We remain close? My friendships are too closed. Stagnant, trying to shake things up
with our hands, starting to feel much better, making too much noise, and measuring the lightbulb that only one manufacturer provides, I am optimistic about direction. I look toward the conductor who owns a talented baton. It is a kind of follow-up. The haze dissipates.
I’m thinking of a week lost playing games. Games are everywhere, but these were in my hand. Was I in control? Yes. The game is in my
hand. Courtesy of microwaves and lots of dead people. But thanks for your courtesy call. Which I appreciated more, I’m sure, than I would the call of a curtain. Or the fall of mankind?
This will take some getting used to. Half the space is now destroyed by tables. We’ll never know anyone. Is the real destruction how little you trust my words? Am I clear? Must be never. Clear as mud, said the hippy-dippy leader of the band. Then come to bed with me. Later,
Or that’s what I thought he said while I unscrewed the lightbulb that only one manufacturer provides. Later, I ran into Todd in a hurry. And wondered if he has social anxiety, too. Maybe times seem so different because communication is mini- mized surrealism. Only five years ago I’d receive daily treatises via email, while today we argue via text messages. These are almost the only words I ever delete. I also have some hair. Most cameras disagree. Do I mind?
As for musical taste, I’m beginning to lose friends. My family is not so very big, and we are losing staff at a steady rate. One, two, three, and so forth. But I’ve noticed longer conversations. Verbal, I mean.
I haven’t read a novel in two or three years. I picked one up at the San Jose Airport a couple of weeks ago, awaiting an important arrival. To be honest, I was just along for the ride or hovering a bit too much or the bastion of moral support. I read two or three pages of it and, when I finally got home, promptly tucked it in between a couple of dust-covered golden oldies. The bookshelf in the kitchen has been that kind of hiding place for over eight years now. I read you, man, but I’ve a fertile fantasy world up in here already. And time
I could throw such a party. The silken memoir of a slow week with full lips such as awesome and party and anniversary and maybe even French. I need to get my arms around a number (my arms?). We left the issue kids with a doctor of stupid words thinking I’m ugly and this is really no good; this unloving of our bodies that lasts so much longer than usual. But then the stalking dogs, the ones who’ve lived in ambiguity. But always. Behind the door without a number. But then the stalking dogs and a frenzy of barking and growling. Familiarity nevertheless breeds a satisfying form of pity. This mixed genre, while a bit of a cliche, makes Nathan Lane beautiful. So of course—and also cliche—after work everyone was horny. It was a bad scene at first, especially considering what we’d all been through the week before and whatnot. But in the end we all had such a lovely time. And the forget- ful bistro’s atmosphere, so haunting. As it fades like a Polaroid in a dusty closet, slips into a mid-summer nap in the late afternoon or early evening, a pile of dictionaries strewn about the moonlit den, colleagues left with what’s obvious, disguised as forbidden fruit (but only tongue- in-cheek). To delicately explore the luxuries of each dew-moistened lip. The vacation felt vaguely tropical
Less Room Than a Broom —from a Saturday morning infomercial
Broadcast on our 8th anniversary during a Kylie Minogue concert, her latest, the one we saw a few months back, only this one’s in London, because I’ve been more than a little confused, texting the silly world a collaps-
ible laundry basket, Tylenol PM, vitamins, red stain for the new frame, some new cologne, a forgotten English word-a-day calendar, those new Sharpie pens which should have been removed from the list
weeks ago, a ream of paper, Tums Smooth- ies(!), Q-Tips, Scotch Pads, Kleenex, shave gel, not quite being honest with myself or anyone, feeling condensed by the gist of the week, the stressful haze, as it gets carried away
to who knows where, just grist for the mill of it all, and I’m walking the clog carrying a sign that reads Wanna fuck me tonight?, only, at least in the moments when the fog briefly clears, not in a good way, not in the right
outfit on a rainy morning or a slow after- noon. Meanwhile, let’s divert, let’s ride this wave, let’s get our heads in the game, let’s celebrate, let’s be a long vacation and buy domestic products like dust-bins
and new-fangled carpet suckers, ducking in and out of warm reality, let’s go condo- shopping, so awesome and so fulfilling we send invitations longer than usual,
Sorry, Jordan, for stealing your update. I left two hundred dollars in the ATM at Walgreen’s and totally got credited for the entire two hundred! All I had to do was ask. And not die of embarrassment.
I wish nothing more than to get boned. To move on. And that’s not putting it eloquently or appropriately, is it? What can I do to keep this? I’m okay. I’m seasoned. I have to be so worried to think with
someone else. That’s part of my mechanism with exes. Exes and ohs. I do believe my life is not a flash in the pan. A total of only twenty dollars. A long, happy, utterly
fulfilling life to get skeptical about. To get boned, bored, and grow a beard.???????????*&&&&&&&&&&&&&F^)
Between the two of us we have four breasts. —Carrie Brownstein on Portlandia
Unfortunately, I can point to things. This brings me two thoughts. One is the dear who can’t stand my points. The other is a poem by Kit Robinson called Evidence. Which can often be found in the woods near where I grew up.
like water, air has both good and bad qualities —Jacob Eichert
I can’t wait until I am able to focus again. I need to purchase: 1) new pillows (Ross?); 2) a land- line telephone (Amazon.com); 3) battery & keyboard for my laptop (make reservation with Apple); etc.
The storms of (pre-)spring are sub- siding. Lots of funny one-liners as potential. I’m sure that’s healthy. Like two weeks of summer before swimming in fog. I wanted to spend some time defusing whatever happened
a couple of weeks ago. But the state of the world (jealousy, paranoia, covert
Axe (dry), Rogaine (3-pack) with the sun fading away from the neighborhood and the impossibility of ice skating, our New Year’s tradition. I get a message from Gail—Thank you for using Walgreens—she’s trying to reach someone with the Silver Bells. Calling to see if you’re busy right now—I’ll try calling one more time. It’s the computer at Pacific Gas and Elec- tric—I was just in the area and I’ll try one more time. How do you hang up on this? Sorry, nervous. I wasn’t sure if it’s twenty minutes you told me or to call in twenty minutes. Hello, this is Andrew the Zipper and I just wanted an update on that Prius. The poet is downstairs. Are you awake yet? My
I even wanted to raise you as my own. But everyone looks alike where I come from. It’s the stuff of tragedy, I know. And we speak a language somewhere near the bottom of the mountain, not towards the top, but yet lost, or unable to desire that first en- counter with a civilization that is not our own. Like from down the street somewhere. We fall drunk into our laps at 6pm and they are happy laps. With blue skies and leaves crawling out of their buds (somebody dragging a suitcase nearby thinks of worms, thinks of Kenneth Cole, thinks of bus noises and of dragging suitcases). The birds sing a second or third stanza. It is a message of hope, but, in our way, it is also wrought with the fear of demons and terror. Another distillery gets inherited by a child who blushes at flapping quail wings—no document will ever exist to prove it. Our traditions come from the island. But for our great barrier. Our uneasy myth- ology. Our general lack of interest. Our banner of representantion is our
on the coattails of love, I’m riding into December. How can I hide this amazing work out? All afternoon in the afternoon of most afternoons. When somebody says into a little telephone a story which finishes an argument feeling drunk. How to look without yelling? Or to interrupt this program to look? Without yelling? You need to reduce being redundant. I welcome this disturbing drama with arms akimbo. When it points and swings to and fro it disturbs the neighbors. You don’t have a say in the matter. Think of it like karaoke. Or a conversation with a milkshake using
it’s sometimes even fun or helpful in a therapeutic sort of way, but your scenario simply would never have happened in the first place. Take being stuck on dry
feet. How could anyone work out on the lam? Well, that’s a bad example. Take the lid for my cup. You
know I’m right, don’t you? I can be sly with love.
Take making money, for example. Which is probably a bad idea. Be open. Be a jogger on a bridge. A gap
between teeth your dentist couldn’t afford. You little piece of sunshine and bus noises.
A treatise on hoping you develop. From inward to outward.
I wish I could fathom the top of the week, you in nothing but a pair of underwear cooking stir-fry. Something with asparagus. I’ve lost all respect for making ham but can we make the nerd stay? For a day or so? Or send one down from the Northwest (Seattle is so salty!). Or. Does it have the bends?
I look around for a neck brace. My head hurts like an IMAX and I don’t know how to graduate from aspirin. Or liquid gelcaps. Which moose is candy? A curtain that opens up to nothing. (Now he’s after me. And everything else in my head.) Meanwhile in Aspen, you smoke a salmon.
Losing it isn’t worthless. It’s a religion based on logic and built on a house of cards. At least I’ve got one. Not some big rubber ball that’s floating around in your apartment. Looking for yoga. Not even apartment yoga. Which doesn’t even require underwear, so to speak. With red elbows into the magic carpet
you take off for homeland without even one stick of gum.
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