The wrong phone is buzzing.
I can see how this could be
a problem. I have one year
left in Boston (I will catch up
with myself in San Francisco,
eventually). I write ‘check out
new e-zine: Jacket’ on June 24.
Oh, Fortune Teller, now it is
Cinco de Mayo, and I find my-
self so suddenly single. Is it
serious (as in real)? Or am I
perhaps mental or ill? At
this time, 2:01am, I honestly
have no idea. So I sit down
and try to feel. Which is not
the brightest idea on an
occasion such as this, I must
admit. Piece by piece, I
empty the box, which
has no answers, just a
deadpan observer. Life is
one dumb question after
another. I have never felt
more certain of this, I
say to the empty box. So
sure am I that I comp-
letely forget to go to the
movies. Instead, I nod
off, sinking comfortably
deeper into this recliner,
looking no doubt like
a mere wisp of my
former[?] self, snoring
through lips that have
learned to remain frozen
in a pitiful snarl until
somebody finds me,
tickles the back of my
neck until the snarl
relaxes into something
like me[?]. What will be
is not what was, nor is it
whatever will be. What a
fix! I’m glad you’re still
here, even if I’m out like
the bright round moon
on a foggy night in San
Francisco. May tomorrow
glow with a similar
radiance to the sheen
of this somewhat
familiar dream.
radiance to the sheen
of this somewhat
familiar dream.
