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Tonight I must write a poem about a dead girl, torn up by coyotes or someone else newsworthy. I am quiet tonight in an old dressing gown.
I am glad to be here though. I'd be no good anywhere else. Especially not around you, loud, gleaming, smiling, exultant you. I'd only get in the way with musings and poems and polysyllabics.
My head hurts while my father laughs - brays - from the other room.
To say I am glad to be here would not be true, because I couldn't be anywhere else. And being here by necessity, I have no other choice (I do, but despair would be unwise) than to be glad.
If I could choose I would roam the streets and look in on old friends, watch their lives and hear their stories, spoken loudly and with charm. I would end the evening being quiet with you, walking or lying or sitting, not planning anything. I would stretch your moments of stillness and sincerity into an hour maybe. I could rest in that. My weary head could rest in that.
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"Come to our bracing desert,
Where eternity is eventful,
Where the weather-glass
Is set at Alas,
The thermometer at Resentful.
Come to our old-world desert
Where everyone goes to pieces;
You can pick up tears
For souvenirs
Or genuine diseases.
Come to our well-run desert
Where anguish arrives by cable,
And the deadly sins
May be bought in tins
With instructions on the label.
Come to our jolly desert
Where even the dolls go whoring;
Where cigarette-ends
Become intimate friends,
And it's always three in the morning."
-w.h. auden
So much noise these days. A boy said to me, as we looked from a rooftop, "i've gotten to interesting places, because i always say yes." I thought, "i find myself in the same places through a "why not"".
though unsure, i never list the possible not's.
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The heat these last few days is unreal. That is, difficult for the body to believe in after the staggering, delirious winter. I answer to no one these days, walk on whatever the side of the street I want.
nights are long, days last according to the climate.
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| Five am now along a damp stretch of highway. Same time elsewhere also.
A man at a bus stop lights a cigarette. I know there is no streetlight to stop me.
No longer any pretense of human movement either. | | |
| There is peace around the house when I am alone and wandering from room to room. I stop to read an article or handwash a dress. These days are needed. Your mom calls to wake you up and do the dishes.
The neighbors are starting to fight in a foreign language.
these things too are needed. | | |
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