And loneliness.
—Madonna
The song changes
and I can’t listen.
Can you? I’ve been
sitting here for days waiting
on everything. But nothing
comes. Not you. Not a box.
Not you in a box. No car.
No fender bender. No
tow truck. No howling
winds. Nothing gets
here but summer,
which is something
I never anticipate
because it is not
that for which I
hope. And it is
not a promise that
can be broken.
And furthermore,
by the time it arrives,
everything is over.
Is everything over?
Summer is here.
The end. Done.
But this is not
what I am here
to tell you tonight.
Tonight, in the un-
sleepable quiet,
I want to tell you
about love and
loneliness. The
funny thing about
this desire, about
any desire, when
it comes down to
desire that sits in
solitude—in a rec-
eptacle of loneliness,
is to whom could it
possibly be undone.
Because who can one
tell in such a place
as this? Once, like
it would be always,
yes. A decade hap-
pens. Or a heart-
attack. Where are
you? Where is he?
With your kitty-cat
photos that come in
the mail (i.e., the phone,
the old laptop) covered,
blanketed almost,
with “I miss you”s.
And yet, nobody, no box,
no blank check. That
last part I got from the
song that just changed,
and then again I got from
the song that came after
that. Almost every song
tells me there is a blank
check arriving. Or, mostly,
that there is cash. Lots of cash.
Lots of love. Lots of shopping;
what’s called—in the
song now playing—that just shot
through the Aurora Borealis and into
my head just now, radio waves
with yet another promise to some-
how contend with, retail therapy?
It has been promised. And I
am afraid I know where all
of the promises go. All too
well. So if you do arrive,
will it be necessary? No.
Will this arrival contain
any currency; or whatever
the lion was missing that
motivated him to somehow
join the others on their
way to Oz? Forget it.
Forget love. Or else I have
forgotten it. I forget now.
Just like now, my head,
hurting, having another
piece ripped as if strategically
from my memory. Something
as impossible as walking down
Sixth Street from Market. Al-
most two blocks. And climb-
ing the stairs to the fourth
floor, where you might find
a door on which the number
424 is stencilled. Open it
and you’ve found my
box. I believe you missed
our moment. I dreamt that I
missed your moment. We
most certainly missed
our moment. Your
moment is gone. My
moment is forever.
It seems. Am I just an
exaggeration? A short film
of a ceramic heart, shown
on the screen in a small
theater, falling in slow mo-
tion (perhaps the film strip
breaks before the heart
hits the ground and
crashes into inexplicable
beauty). I forgot beautiful
when I thought it was you
that I lost. But I had forgotten
my deadline, too. We all have
deadlines. And now that
I am reliving this gor-
geous life every single
day—every single day
this gorgeous life—
it doesn’t matter
that you’ll never
arrive. Whoever comes
first, I think. That will be
okay. That may be alright.
So. I am almost all the
way to Howard Street. On
the left. 175 Sixth. Yes.
You must climb the stairs
because the elevator
is always broken down—
like you must be now
that I am beautiful again—
all the way to the fourth
floor. No, I will not pick
you up at the airport to-
morrow. But I will see you
when I get there. When I get
there (when I get there). And
I am now almost where I belong.
