still

I met my prince late at night. We litsened to Howard Jones, stole a case of beer from the bar, and danced. I looked through his records. He fed me. We talked about baseball and jazz. I loved his shy smile, and he loved my laugh. And then we fell in love.
And now here we are in our little cottage, almost 2 years old, and still in love, still inspired. Still staying up late together, talking about jazz and baseball. Still dancing to his old records and making delicious sweetness together. I am sharing the awe of my youth with a him and I am happy, still.

Blinded by the Light

I write him down at the bottom of my list
as if I have forgotten him
or never really knew him.
But I know him and I remember him.
The duck calls and constellations,
the am radio, blaring.
The old smoke filled nova, blue.
The black in his coffee and our days
marching in front of us.
Imperfect,
happily.
And the ballgames.
The smell of him.
It goes unwashed. Unfiltered.
The one time I saw him drunk was laughable, jolly, pj time.
He stopped drinking early, before I was born,
when he became the father
of an addict.
I was too young to notice.
I was old enough to care.
(to be continued)

never really

She was never a good student.
She did poorly in math and had a short attention span.
She wore clothing badly and had pore posture.
Very disconserting.
She would not sit still.
She appeared tierd, worn out by her own lack
of ambition. Rings under her eyes.
Very unapealing.
She was afraid of the other girls.
Unaware of the boys.
Very menacing.
And she never said a word.
Dissapeared one day.
And never existed
Not really

How does one afford an ipod?

And when one obtains the ipod, does one become changed, more sophisticated, likable?
Seems to me that the ipod has become an iconic symbol intended to point out the savvy 20 something in a crowd.
It's like the fanny pack on a tourist.
I'm sticking to my sony.

The write to think not quite right

When I can't write I think of my third Uncle who told me I was too fat to write. I think of my drunk Dad and Rockaway. I think of Jackson Pollack. I think, 'Should I move this old lamp or throw it away?" I think about random acts of nonsense, like my career. I take out the garbage, throw a load in, and wash the dishes from the night before. I should really learn to cook, I think. I run to the market to get the quarters to start the next load, wine I think, wine is fine I think. I take the cat out, I bring her back in. I chain-smoke. Should I be typing or handwriting? I need to call my Grandma. I need to sew the buttons back. I need to move home, finish school. Just write. Relax I think, but I have stuff to do and hours to waste. Later, I think.

I am pleading with this day to end.

Lately it has been 'Asshole day' everyday around here and it's starting to seep in that maybe I drink on school nights for a reason. Maybe all the assholes that get together and blame me for their fiscal stupidity are getting under my skin (?) hmmmmmmmmmm
No matter, I have my bottle of red waiting for me and nothing can ruin her sweet warm welcome. Our time is private time and Asshole-Free.
The craftiness lingers all over our dining room table tonight and I will be sure to make something of it. Cut it all up, and paint it orange, something to come of nothing.