try again later

Today I've been on a dive.  Maybe not enough sleep.  Maybe rain, but like I wanna clock perfect strangers on the subway with a backpack I'm not even carrying.  Maybe seven strangers, I wanted to clock.  Guy sitting across three seats on a crowded train.  Why should I care except the self-centeredness makes me burn.  I guess it's just a day where I am seeing the underside.  Not every day can happen on 15 hours of sleep and be propped up by a dozen miracles over twenty minutes.  And plus today might even improve. But for now, it's a dive.  Here in half light, wishing for a changeup.  Last night I saw the darkest film (Christiane F).  It was slow to reveal its utter heave.  I knew it was to be gritty, and at first it also seemed luminescent, but over the garment of the thing, just became clear it was a bad down.  But worth it, how I am still thinking of it.  Toward the end of it, I couldn't put up with a single human, nor myself.  Barely managed to return Die Hard and pick up some strong beer and chips at the bodega.  Got a full tank and some chips, kept repeating in my head, at least I was on the right track. 
If I could now I'd go sleep this off, try and burn whatever this is off with hot water in a mug, in the tub, in some broth.  I thought writing would do it but I can still see the ground approaching far beneath me.

prose poem

There are good things always.  Things like milk, like salt.  Cubes of sugar, cubes of ice.  Broth and boullion and soap flakes.  The scent imparted by clean laundering, or hung on the line, or winter machine dried and clutched warm to the chest.  Books unmet by eyes, or also met by many eyes.  Dough and bread and butter which has been softened slightly, applied with generosity.  Tea and lemon, infusions of clove and orange and bergamot.  Either side of one's neck where which you can rest and nestle, clavicle, soft-skinned and supported.  Being held.  Enough in-arms time.  Rain checks and make-up, second chances.  Fast clocks surprise more time.  Wrist watch lack worry, on-time arrival.  That which is green and that which flowers fast.  Fast clouds and fast cars.  Windows down with the heat on the feet.  Fires of all sorts.  Folded paper, letters in envelopes.  Hand delivery, door bell, church bell, yes.  Ham and butter wrapped in fabric and lap unfolded.  Palindromes of course, full circle travel.  Rocks held warm in the hand.  Application of oil changes color.  Priming of water on paper for pigment slide.  Sine wave, surf wave.  Lessons in tightropes or surfing your high hopes or adioskansas full stop, whistle top, remember.  Print and cursive callous and ink.  Watery high and illustrious low.  Wait did I tell you my latest one--naming my futuredaughter first name faye middle name magnolia; it has a nice ring to it, and I think about NOLA bounce and I think about ladyboys and I think MAGNOOOOLIA!  MAGNOLLLLLIA!  do it do it do it / i think i just might / i think i just might

body capital

First I wanna talk about the difference between wanton and wonton.  Wanton--rogue right?  As in rogue justice.  What I feel of this word evidenced by the denotation: Marked by unprovoked, gratuitous maliciousness; capricious and unjust: wanton destruction. 3. Unrestrainedly excessive.  Now, wonton: popular dumpling, oft about soup, best filled with vegetable not animal, but that's me, not usually into mystery meat.  But speaking of mystery meat.  I was confronted with the image of "wanton fishes", because I was thinking of women I don't know.  Women who share a certain characteristic, body capital, a reckless lack of feeling, stupidity that conquers without feeling.  That which is unsisterly becomes sport.

take away or to stay

Since I am now a bachelor, I shamelessly frequent the Thai restaurant on the corner.  The decor is terrible; they practically chose teenage blood to adorn the walls.  But the food is good, and so is the economy.  Thursday evenings are the best because they have a live jazz trio play in the restaurant.  Total rescue from the vagaries of soft rock satellite radio they play afternoons and all other times.  Which rips at me, and yet the two men who always work graciously make me feel as though they've never seen me before.  I'm doing an exhaustive study of their Vegetable Drunken Noodle, so many many a drunken noodle that it's to the point where I wish I could tell them they really rocked it on the broccoli tonight.  And there'd be hi-fives.
At the risk of being repetitive and depressive, I find this ritual really comforting.  There's good color in the food, in the spice.  And on Thursdays is the chance to transcend milieu and hit the woody allen new york cruising altitude of awesomeness. 

while it's fresh

i woke up the first morning in my new house.  my bed, delivered yesterday, turns out to be too small so my feet curl off the edge.  the building i live in turns out to exude more than straight equanimity on a friday night but i think we'll get used to each other. 

i see a bird on the balcony (fire escape technically, but it's wide and was a magnetic feature in choosing this flat) outside my bedroom.  it's staring right at me, and it's a bird of prey, a hawk maybe, brown and white speckled and eagle faced.  there's feathers everywhere.  as i get closer i see that it's standing, but is bent in half, and the bottom half looks dead. 

i'm not sure when the huge goose bumps rise up on my arms and legs, making it look like i am covered in coarse sea salt.  i think that's not yet, because at this point i still think it's hurt and at this point is when there's tears in my eyes.  salt in the eyes yet.

but then it's clear, this bird is not hurt.  this bird is standing on top of a bird that's dead.  the bird that's dead looks like a dove, round white and brown, pink footed.  and there is a bit of blood on the beak of the hawk.  but the hawk is unconcerned with the dead bird at this point, doesn't really seem concerned with much, is exuding much...equanimity...at this moment, that which my building has lacked all night and all morning with the party stair climbers and fighting women.

hawk is clear eyed.  it's looking at me.  i project that it's lost somebird very dear to it, that it's brought the otherbird to my window to take some time.  i project, i project.

but the feathers are flying, in the wind of the airshaft, little bits of blood on the feathers.  the blood on the nose. 

i reach for my necklaces, which are on the windowsill, which is wide, where i have set up a makeshift altar.  the hawk scatters with my reach, though the window is closed. 

that dove is with a huge heart shaped gash where the head was

the hawk has long tail feathers, has retreated to another sill until i am done with my necklaces, then returns to my window to eat. 

CODA:
returned late in the day to find that bird still there!  having put in a full day's work devouring the dove.  i took a photograph of the bird, and it retreated fast, immediately snatched the last one-third of the dove and took off, leaving a mess of feathers and her void behind.  

i need to remember the names of all the other people's songs that i've sung and learn to sing them again

like race car drivers' names, i would like to recall them all.  if you remember any more will you tell me? i suppose i will take requests too

unchained melody

allentown
under the boardwalk

birds & ships

rhythm of my heart

a change is gonna come

you belong to me

bring it on home

do it to it

i'm on fire

paper doll

all through the night

in the aeroplane over the sea

the new zero

oh, and:
real love
dreamland
this will be our year