6:04 PM - punctuation

i was living by myself in
a predominantly black (by
which, i mean to say
"poor") neighborhood; i am not
black (i am). so -
keeping 'in' with the times,
you know, of course the nightly
shots and sirens (never in that
sequence); of course there was
(of course, of course) a
latent unrest (in me, my
building, in the street, the news,
in the stop sign at the
end of the block), an unrest
everywhere; unseen but tactile:
the dystopian present.

my apartment was a place
in which mice died in the
ceramic bathtub; ladybugs roamed
the ceiling; winter was terrifying;
i left it in a shambles - it took
a month to move out of there
(the details are, lets say, inconcise)
ashtrays on every table (dresser,
carpet, windowsill) - an homage
to vice; $310, US per month;
barricade bar on the back door:
it was the place i had made for myself

coming in, as drunk as
the river dusk is red (very
late, always very late) and then playing
ray charles or eric burdon
very loud (always very, very
loud), dancing with myself or
passing out (dead to the world),
or half-cooking some noodles
only to suddenly become
totally disinterested in eating
food...then sleeping for a few
hours, waking, working, then
maybe fucking, maybe writing (..,
always drunk. always very drunk):
this is the way it was.

i never took my neighbors
very seriously (i didn't
care to be bothered much), until one
of them came into my
apartment (while i was asleep,
early one sunday morning);
poor people have poor ways. it
could have been worse (it could
be worse - i can say so, even
unaware of where i, exactly, am):
a prayer for the future.

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9:03 PM - the abstracted infatuation - or - cantos - or - fuck it

his name comes
up. he is the
Titanic. i scroll
through the address
book, knowing what's
there, never surprised;
quietly giving myself
the secret electric
shock of seeing his
name there. it works
every time. a shot to
the gut; expecting reality
to fold in on me. its
easy...and then, it isn't
anything at all.

using a pen stolen, at
some point, from the
Loan N' Go on
broadway and 40th, i'll
put this down, for once
and for all...which is a
nice idea. a good little
blanket, up in which to
wrap myself. this is as
close as i might come to
having something to
say: silly, lonesome talk,
reserved for those cunts in
the madhouse who refuse to
be stood up by men who
probably never Were to
begin with; waiting, holding
their own hands, talking to
the walls (anything with no
ears). through the months
and years, i am not much
more than as captive as
that.

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3:21 PM - towards a better ending

the outside air before ten
a.m. in the last part of september
feels like hardware; less than
tepid, more than cold. it does its
rushes or stalking over the landscape
and we might as well have dreamed it,
written it down some years ago and
forgotten all about that stroke of brilliance
just in time for this today, this here, this
now to go ahead and happen. "good
morning..."

this makes me wish i were
simple enough to be sated with
the weather; dependant on its
reprieve or damnation. however, the
reverie of autumn's brief beginning
will be interrupted with the sudden
scene of My Candidate's Imminent Defeat, the
scent of my hair gone gummy and wild,
the sense of tremulous desire for something
(always) different or something complete
in its effect...none of this here-and-there,
this a-little-bit-at-a-time drudgery to which
we are all so fucking well-accustomed.

"good morning..."

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2:00 PM - hollering

i want to go gray early.
i want all my lovers to,
eventually, leave me;
throwing up their hands
with giving up the ghost
of what, early on, i was -
vivacious, caring, funny,
warm. i want the terrorists
to win against us, the
brave new world to come
crashing. i want to win
the lottery or become
homeless. i want, sometimes,
to be a man. i want to
continue to throw the
curve.

having breeched the closing
cusp of youth, i may hit mid-
life crisis at age 42; the
days get only shorter in
length, earlier at the end,
time becomes irrelevant,
timing becomes everything.
i want to wear a mask.
i want the New Yorker to
publish me. i want to have
safe sex, never mention it
to the boyfriend. i want
to, some day, vote
republican.

it takes more than knowing
better, more than keeping an open
mind, more than work;
the requisite resources are
vast and foreign.i want a drink
or a sandwich named after
me; the depth of my rumored
prowess in one thing or another.
i want sheepish to mean something
else. i want amnesia.

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9:54 PM - this very different world

if this is the same world
where all my exes (in their
nebulous multitudes) are getting
together in one smoky bar's back
room, then i have just successfully
blackmailed the mayor and the
governor's wife (tax fraud and
marital infidelity, respectively),
thereby securing my transportation
and living expenses for the next
four years. i think an in-city
vacation would be appropriate,
or maybe some light charity work...
i'll be a big sister to one of those
terribly disadvantaged little sisters -
i'll become a role model!

if this is the same world in which
my compatriots would dream that
either a black man or (any) woman
could attain the office of the presidency,
then let us assume with our whole
hearts that the only components to
american happiness are honest hard
work and strong family values...all
across this nation crime rates are dropping,
drug use is declining, people are carpooling,
gardening, christmas caroling...time
warner has filed for bankruptcy, the
doctors are curing cancer, the minimum
wage has been raised to eleven dollars
per hour.

if this is the same world which
turns, unabated by our human
endeavor; meek, solid, grossly
acquiescent - we have, also, lost
the need for leaders. we have
begun to believe in each other. we
obdurately refute poverty and ignorance
and violence against the innocent
with hard action, with spirit unmatched
in fervency and vigor. we no
longer are blinded by personal ambition. we
have few, if any, abstract desires.

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11:11 PM - later

in a flurry, i
remember her name
was Sandra, like
in the movie/musical
Grease. Sandy.
john travolta says
her name in my
head before i say
it with my mouth
every time...i
remember her willingness
to lie to strangers
the way she got ready
to say things, making
everybody anticipate
the not-very-original-
at-all adage or quip that
she frequently let fall.

Sandy moved within the
world as if she owned the
place, though without
ever having left the greater
meropolitan area in which
she was reared.
she would always know
where to go to
get whatever it was
she wanted. she
was one of those.

i see Sandra in little
things about my behavior;
the hand touching the
neck (i always thought
it looked so elegant,
the way she did
that), the legs crossed
at the ankle (so
lady-like!), my employment
of sarcasm so reeks
of her. i know
that no one ever says,
"my friend, Sandra..."
people only say,
"this girl, Sandra..."
they are confused
by their respective
mixtures of adoration
and hatred held in
Sandy's name.

the last time i
saw her was
on a sidewalk,
downtown; she looked
tired or maybe drunk,
maybe hungover...neither
of us wanted to do the
stop-and-chat, so
we both did,
halfheartedly exchangin
the 30-seconds edition
of 'how are you?'s and
'what's new?'s
she didn't remember my
name, at that moment,
either.

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11:04 PM - (diptych)

pt. one
(notes on palmistry)

he was terribly overdrawn;
there was not a lot, not much
to say or do about it - hard as
i might've tried (but didn't).

an available apex from which
to view this is totally encom-
passing, even, hard-to-get.
otherwise disposed (of course,
looking over my shoulder), i
use estimates and my best
judgement to predict what is
going to happen next.

pt. two
(notes on exaggeration)

"it all looks too good to be
true," immediately. frought wtih
a languorous hope which could,
with a word, be succinctly decried;
i rub my hands together and wait,
baited.

"i won a bet against you," he
said. a roster of stock failures
scrolls through my mind, but i fail
to find curiosity of the amount of
his winnings or reason for the wager -
any answer, at best, is disheartening.

he says, anyway: "we guessed that
you probably couldn't get through a
whole day without having the chip
knocked off your shoulder. i won
three-fifty."

'that's one-seventy-five in euros,' i
thought.

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1:20 PM - the honeymoon is over

in the bedroom, i can
smell his warm and naked
body. the depths of night are
in here (the clean, straight,
striking nemesis who will,
eventually, undo me); i un-
dress very quietly, listening
to my flesh harmonize with
the darkness.

its only 11:30, he's been down
for a couple of hours already, i
am not at all sleepy, i miss the
courtship (he does too, though,
we never speak of it, of course).
impossibly, the sounds of my
singing skin reverberate for
hours and i will not break
from waking, not until it is
too late to have dreams. he
rolls away with all the pillows,
with all the covers caught up.

the cat believes she will someday
be able to eat us alive. it is 2:30;
sweating, frustrated, full of adrenaline
for some weird reason, i move to the
couch. i miss the turbulence, the
uncertainty, the late nights and
debacle. i reminisce the silken meat
of the first kiss, the weight of
potential, the roughshod preamble
of dawn - coming on by surprise
every time...counted for,
the list runs on, grows to outmatch
me, finally.

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3:37 AM - in particular...

a tincture of these 25 years
precedes itself in an unsavory
way; but then - really,
it all depends.

what is a 'head'? what
is a 'gut'? what is a 'through'?
what is a 'yes'? "please,"
she says, "not again,"
in a voice
that might be comprised
of the red light of
dawn and the itch of
an ill-fitting sweater.

in as much time as
she's found to've been alive
we've discovered the
most efficient way to pull
the threads, marry the mayos,
hump the dream, and
take the cake.
ten more years
like this is a sadists promise,
i swear.

no one speaks the
language anymore;
what is a 'moves'? what
is a 'it'? what is a
'must'? by virtue of
no-virtue-at-all,
we countdown the
days until Now might
happen. we
begin to believe in Never.

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11:29 PM - hey, fancy meeting you here!?

although, yes, the ending outcome has
already been predetermined - we're at an
impasse; a decision between an unfeeling,
nebulous void, and a stark path walled-in
at about the width of our body.

we begin by trying to convince ourself of,
either, our adventurous curiosity or our
faithful cowardice. it is a difficult propo-
sition; to forever bear the mark, at heart, of a
wild thing or a pussy...cat.

we look at our hands, then, for a particular
ruddiness or working quality that might qualify
them as prepared for adversity. then, we assess
our state of satiety. without an apparent hunger
or thirst waiting to be quelled or quenched - soon,
we must agree to stall ourself for an indeterminate
period of time...

posted, we watch others come and go through
this crossroads with some relative ease; more join
us at the wayside, exchanging jokes and anecdotes,
pretending not to notice the amount of time that has
passed. we make the acquaintance of several
people of whom we would swear we bear no
resemblance.

at all, we have eschewed any further progress
in coming to a conclusion about which way
(which way, which way, which way) to go?
gone, now to gambling with it, propositioning,
splitting hairs - on the hem of Future.

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9:59 AM - about me (pt. three)

put a band-aid on the shaved
fingertip and continue
to chop the garlic. raise your
hand, and wait patiently
for the bartender to
notice you. frequently forget
who you owe what to.

vacate the premises and
wait for reinforcements. keep
counting the days and hours
and minutes - carve a tally for
each year. tell that story again,
but you are the hero this time.

guess that as much as you know
now is as much as you ever
will. stop telling other's
secrets. half-ass everything.

everything.

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2:59 PM - about me (pt. two)

smoking, i am hit in the face
by the sun; it is a normal day.
through blocks of buildings and
widths of streets: conversations,
transistor radio dins,
lonely dogs, vehicle traffic,
and the smell of backed-up
storm drains fit themselves
into me, finding it snug but
quite accomodating in there.

one has their way of beginning
to say things; the lips and tongue
reflexively prepare themselves,
appropriate to the situation.
the breath and crux come
close to being synonomous
in the lungs of liars (tailors, cowboys,
grand larsonists, junkies, fortune tellers) 
and priests...it is continuously
less and less easy to differentiate
the vile from the pious; malice from
faith.

hung on, though, by the smallest
appendages of hope or ability,
waiting to see.

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1:15 PM - shortly, in the grocery

instead of the usual
plastic mesh bag
of oranges or
apples, the kid wants

strawberries,

and says so
with hopeful
expression. the mother
doesn't quite know
how to explain to this very
naive person how
cost-ineffective 
those strawberries happen
to be (rotted
in less than a
week, only half
finished, they
have to go with
something else, 4
dollars per pound - and thats
in season);

instead of trying at all,
she flat-out denies
the kids innocent-enough
desire, which vacates the
kids face with a
cinema worthy
flourish, right there,
in the produce aisle.

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12:25 PM - exactly. what?

a veteran dream,
surviving each
greedily waking
day, plays out - making
the world electric
and alive...

as yet: hungry
and hesitant, giving audience,
on fire or otherwise
smoldering - we
endure the show.
we are made of 
words and may not
make much sense of
each other. we
have to ask "now,
what is this all about?" we
are made to
remember, again,
the answerless end.

we take caution
and the wind and
get in the car to
head for the mountains.
we have
hope for the
future. derided by the
peace of dreams, our
sleeping nerve trembles
with want and what
would look like
gold; with open eyes
and spit and sunlight -

the problem solved, the
truth told.

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5:08 AM - "so what?"

s shaped, morning
pouring in - the clamor
of bobcats outside the
windows; cricked, with
hot breath from
parts unknown - we are
large and uncanny.

the mouthy lengths
of dreams keep creeping
in: loud even from far
away, swingingly sharp
and immune to waking.

"how did we get here?"

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