Sleeping At Lunch
I dreamt I was Frank O’Hara.
I softly kissed Larry Rivers on the forehead
and it was again Rachmaninoff’s birthday.
I took a walk along the familiar path
where I once stopped to type something up,
a poem perhaps or maybe just a note for you.
I detoured down to the apartment where we all lived,
that foul address. God, we were happy when we left!
I remembered a story Joe told and how it made me smile
through the haze of the lumped-together smoke.
I made my way back from lunch to the museum.
Mike had made a cake because they had all forgotten me,
but the cake was no good because Mike is not a baker.
And then I woke up. And I remembered having
been him, but not having been him. Imagine!
A dark hand clutches
the tissue sliding
gently through fingers
as I slowly die.
Weak and cold,
I fall to the floor.
Six Thoughts On Being Added
Are you the one I wanted
to have sex with tonight?
Or were you just the one
who I was meeting for
an interview at a place
I didn’t want to work
(and would probably get
fired from for having sex
with you in the stock room)?
Fellow blogger: do I know you?
Can we forget to be cordial sometimes?
All of this can be so exhausting.
I have finally arrived at
I feel completely loved… understood.
The fragile boy clicks on my name.
He is looking for someone else…
someone like himself.
The little boy doesn’t want to kill
He wants to be loved
and he reaches out for help.
Eventually, we married. But not right now.
Tomorrow is when I met him. Tomorrow is
when he decided to put me on his list.
Tomorrow is when I became his friend.
But today I don’t even know him.
Leave me alone!
Apathy washed over me today.
It ran in streams down my back
and soaked into my pores.
I drank it; became intoxicated by
the dark splendor of emotionlessness.
But I didn’t care.
In the rising tides of apathy,
I smoked a cigarette until
the waves engulfed me
and I drowned.
Six Thoughts On Being
I let myself get sunburned again,
like I do every year.
This is a lesson I may never learn.
How strange a new hole seems
when it’s tender and swollen.
And how difficult it is to not
have it filled once it has healed.
Turquoise makes me sad
because my grandmother is dead.
It would have been nice to have
been Frank O’Hara — to have written
those things and to be remembered.
But I don’t own a typewriter and
I just realized that I am not sad.
And look! Words.
I need more Texas and more sleep
and I miss my mother, who I haven’t seen
in three months. I hate North Carolina.
I want something beautiful
tattooed on my arm
and I want a joint.
I want the sweetness
of something intoxicating
to fill my lungs
and make me feel alive.
Even now I can taste
that distant memory
and crave it.
Staring at the overly-ordered shelves
I wish vacation had never ended and
long for the next one to begin
This excessive order often makes me angry
a kind of unnecessary anger over order
that I cannot create myself
Today it is a relief from the chaos
it might have been
and I know I should thank Meghan
(the girl ripped from an Italian fashion magazine)
this order is hers
For now I am still thinking about past and future
ventures away from here
longing to escape the present
and I am still mesmerized by the intensity