The window was open, some music was stringing through the flimsy laptop speakers, my orange pants were unbuttoned and there was a hole in my poem. At Meek and mild volumes agressive scenes of domestic tittilation sit idly on the precipice of my mind, beside the image of an imaginary girl. A spectre with a real life apotropaic corrolary two thousand miles away. Lust was blowing through the faded baby-blue curtain like a midatlantic seaside mist. Hard to focus on the poem. A poem or a naked person. Ah, a life without threats. Let's make some.
Suddenly it was June. Time to get dressed.
A simple apartment on the hill. The divagations from a long monkish tradition inherited on another hill on an important moment of insight. A moment or a series of moments. My bathroom has a framed print from a Henri Matisse show in 1987. A moment, or a series of moments. "Typically ones that leads to dramatic transformation of attitude or belief." I am alone in this. I am not alone. How did you sleep last night? A fly in the window. The light feels warm on my naked self. Why put oatmeal in soap? Who has the sight to do that? The feel?
Watching impossible people, like Jacquelline Wood from the Bold and the Beautiful. Where do people like that come from? I think about the mountain, getting dressed. Cold, like snow, underwear is still an evolutionarily recent phenomenon. Orchards brushed in flowers.
"Trying to read and understand, but I can't understand. Can someone please explain." The train goes by with a child's eyes peeking out. A child or a knife. My soul is detached on Tuesdays. It's for your own protection. Give it a try. Be safe. Go to bed by eight. Clean the dust out from behind your pillow.
The sun is going down. Your body is a fingerprint on the window of this decade. Twenty years ago it was now. Emerging from some blithe belvedere onto a moonlit walk with the shadows closing in. Up Fell, Oak, or darkening Page, filled with texts "PE•JAY?"
She wore a smile which said everything. An étranger, a voleur, a triche. We sat and ordered meat on bread. Blue napkins. Fold this part,
Unfold that, for interesting, amusing and even a bit little sad. That alchemy of wine and pints of new personalities. A small-font kiss, like a ripe blueberry. I told her about my poem. A fool, a speck of dust, her eyes became the ocean. Distant, shoring up.
We stood on a hill. The city brighter than the sky. A familiar wind. She was a chameleon. Transformed. Transfixed I swung from a tree and squeezed. What makes a man great? Some music perhaps to sink into, she whispers, "I like this rhythm" as we move in close to the lit-up crowd. Only the dead would not. Steady. Remember this sway. Each hand a smooth glove. "But they don't know where, and they don't know when" we sang along. Don't close your eyes. You lean on my chest and I can imagine our hearts breaking deep in our future bones. This is what it feels like when it starts, when it ends. When it ends don't close your eyes. Don't close your eyes The lights and the shades thrum. Like a thrush in a breeze.
This is what it felt like.
Come on let's not yet go. There.
Now I can finish digging the poem. Are you lonely all by yourself? For how much would you buy it?