4. A car there parked beneath my apartment one evening. A half-figure, cut off from my angle, sat alone in the driver’s seat in the middle of a conversation. The blue-tooth bled loudly — bass-y — into the night and up through my open window. The other conversant was saying, “Do you know what he said to me? He said he thought of me as an adopted child.” They had only slept together five times, the voice through car speakers and through the glass said. I couldn’t hear the half-form’s response, but its silhouette was tense and unwavering. It felt like there should be more.
8. I wake to the familiar plinking of my father on the black grand piano. The sound breezes through the floor from the room below. There’s a bright dullness Continue reading “8.”
1. In a Captain Vancouver-like exploration of last year’s violet notebook, I re-discovered the original Hot Browns recipe from a hotel restaurant in St Louis.
5. The itchiness culminated in a triple-murder-suicide. It happened one subdivision from where my parents lived, where I used to and my father still does. Continue reading “5.”
2. You may or may not be pleased to know that I’m in a new place. You may or may not be pleased to know that I’m using your phantom limb as leverage to climb a grey and cobbled wall. You may or may not be pleased to know that the new place reminds me of the old place.
7. You lean forward. A brown feline. Or a pulsating green heart. You grip it. It squirms in the blanket as you try to pick it up.
1. The brakes of a bus. The furnace waking. Any soft sounds
were your words — the way you whispered over the phone. A city becoming mine and part of me.
The chime of the clock and the direction of your eyes. A rooster crowing while The Clash was calling.
In all these connections, we were representative of nothing.
It was all quite impossible and an early form of madness. But you called it something else, what you thought you saw through the pews and beyond the hesitation to push past knees into the airplane aisle.
Continue reading “Against Seven Oaks”