Weekends

The weekend before last was worse than most weekends, save a few. There was a party and a fight. Cops talked to me. It was Jimmy’s birthday. ************* This past weekend was better than that last weekend. There was no party and the person to fight with is gone for now. It is not Jimmy’s …

Letter to Paul

I found your nose in my chicken pie, and lightly sent you smoke and glassy pans and things to bake clay on. No you don’t. I’m a terrible badger of late, making bad on my lightness, my room of books, ashtrays, the precise way I move here and steer the garbage into corners. The foundations …

you like I letter

slung with slant news; some bells attached to trees smartly knotted betwix sturdy hairs of Bentgrass, St. Augustine, Zoysia, and Throw Rug Green seen some distance up, as from a plane, the way you will be going December 28th. I say I’m fine, sans severance, the tall columns of lofty hotel lightness. It’s bulldozer cold …

HelloHello

I’m watching Fran and Gay propagandate on camera right now. Fran said she likes the way my toes move up and down & I’m thinking, is that a proposition? Then of course I think of you or maybe walking on your thighs, possibly showing you an oboe reed. Oh I played the oboe, Buster. When …

Charlie Letter

I am not sure knowledge is pure and this is troubling me today. So you say spoonbread and I’ll take that. But knowing is only the half of it, can you tell I’m reading Emily D? She is my little pincer. So don’t take offense. It’s busy bearing down and writing tinges of things, tired …

Reading

It goes like this. The floor is covered in sheets. Not your sheets and they crunch and you’re laughing laying there, adjusting to someone , not sure if his eyes are blue or green, pale though, and smug. There’s no looking at him, so turn around. How warm everything is because his hands are cold. You’re hating …

New Years

So Christmas is over. I hope you’re happy. And New Year’s too—just to keep things interesting—it’s over. I drank 2 beers on New Years Eve, (What should we toast to? Oh, I don’t know. To this shit life. To this shit life). Only two, but I pretended to be drunk. I didn’t want to go home. …

Extended Reality

So. Someone drunk told me to write something real. Real, huh? Real like the oranges sagging in my backyard? Are those oranges real enough? No. I’m sure they’re not. Not even drunk, will you give me an orange. So I’ll move us into Christmas. I’ll tell you about a tree that my mother covered with …

Recording

Do you remember recording? That Sunday, it was so fucking hot, but we recorded anyway, tapping the microphone, check, check. So I bought ice cream like you wanted. Hauled ice cream up the hot third floor and dug two spoons in it. We ate from the same cup, and the sun—we wanted it in the …

Paranoia

When I drive to Phoenix I don’t drive fast, so it takes me two hours to get there. During the 2 hours, I picture crashing. Sometimes the car just flips over. Other times, it spins into other cars. Once, I rolled onto the train tracks and I couldn’t unfasten the seat belt in time. Death-by-train …

Straight

So I’ll give it to you straight. September is for Thursdays. Or Mondays. Or whatever. It’s for lounging about the apartment after you’ve done half the reading for the next day (the other half will be read or not-read, depending). But right now, at this second, you’re thinking about stone (note: Jane says poets can’t …

Anna the Cat

There’s a blue light just before the sun goes under. And lots of dust. And you’re always forcing yourself uphill. A sore ass. Blisters between your toes because you haven’t mastered the art of wearing flip-flops yet. But fuck socks. Blisters are better than socks. A few tears, but nothing to be ashamed of. And …

Milestones

5/19/03 Brooklyn David takes a long piece of plywood out of the shed, and runs his hand across its edges. The handsaw slides back and forth, it splits and falls to the floor. Cutting does it. There are chairs set out like suspension bridges. Everything changes, their functions change. The sheet takes the shape of a …

Silence

So I’m thinking about silence these days. Silence like standing in front of a door. Silence like something cold. Like having your mouth cut from your face. Like writing, maybe, if the writing doesn’t work. “Shut up” “No you shut up” When we’re fighting, I say a lot of things that aren’t true. It’s my …

Dear Shithead

I’m going to cook your cerebellum in a large greasy pot. You’ve probably forgotten me by now. I suspect you’re at some obnoxious art party in Chelsea, or maybe watching a foreign flick in lower Manhattan. Or just maybe you’re slobbering at some over-priced vegan restaurant in Williamsburg. Regardless of which borough you’re sniffing around …

Letter from NY

Mom, my hands are strangling the kitchen faucet and for a while I think of you. It’s another dropped plate on the linoleum; a Saturday with nothing to do but rub at the grease. I’m asking you about retirement. Is there a trip to take at your age? Can I say ‘I’m tired’ before it …