In and out of bursting in and out of flames. Hiccups, and contractions, and a need to drink water, but I have wine now. And a room which has never been more perfect. And flat tires continuous, almost daily, without a doubt weekly. Because of these roads, these pieces of glass and trash and everything. A siren chirps. They party all over the streets. I don’t like that my tire is flat and I can’t walk my bike the two miles home, that instead I have to pay a car to take me, and paying is what I’m doing, whereas before it was silly to think about not paying, paying paying what, let me pay, who cares. And it’s like that still, the everyotherday kind, of devastation at least it isn’t constant. It’s beautiful to think of him like this. It also helps to devastate my state, in particular a new york state, at why shouldn’t I walk alone at midnight home, where someplace else I could, and could easily & should gladly, maybe not minding so much. It’s just the feeling I want, to be in love and the rest seems excessive, like the trash, the city, the pressure, the job of boring useless. Wow! Did I just scream that? Okay then bye bye. It’s just getting me & has been since we met that I could be close to someone again, so inevitably close. And of course so all I want at this moment, and how long it’s been since, and SO LONG it’s been, and yes I am ready, have been since the day charlie & I broke up. Really have. It seems better, more intelligent, all the wiser for a body to say things to self & others like, oh I’m just not ready to be close to someone again… so I’ve adopted that (subtly, and in a lie) by saying it aloud & to myself, and even at times knowing I’m not great or interesting enough at this particular point in my life. But let me interrupt: why then is it so easy for me to be endlessly interesting to him, and for me to want to listen to him for upwards of eternity, and for me to feel in every bone the truth that what I say & do & feel and all the ways in which I respond & act are right and True and completely unnecessary to justify or explain or support. They are little enigmas on their own, and even I don’t feel selfconscious, when he tells me he thinks I’m brilliant I know it is because I am. I want to say no, I’m a genius- which I am. Bright & lit up. Radiant. Omygod I am such an asshole, it’s about time I smoked that last one and went dark.
But first: I wanted to gush; how about the women with huge gigantic bosoms wearing tshirts like JUICY printed across them in three feet of block lettering, oh wow, and gushing, like I do. I go in & out, back & forth with him there, yeah, he’s a boy but must be dumbly romantic like I or else this wouldn’t work out so well. And I trust the fuck out of him, can you imagine? Is it because I know he thinks I’m brilliant, maybe, but not because I’m afar like I worry I might find him, appealing in such an impossible way, and I don’t need to know the mileage to know an approximate latitude, a latallure he has to me, so far down in heaven country where my heart thrives like a succulent, sits baking in a sun so close and thriving, fleshy, on all the blood love lust fluffing out its puffy tufted paws. My heart is a simple succulent, so simple in fact it’s just the leaf of one, nevermind the plant; what I’m looking for here is the whole rest of me, a stalk & a root stuck down into the dry rocksoil. My damn little affable heart in all its bliss stuck into the Arizona dirt, forever.
I once when a child made fun of people who wanted to live in Arizona like they were afeared of the cold, but look at a strong creature tucked beneath a prickly pear and we’ll attempt to uncover a coward.
I want to gush at the productions I’ve had, contractions too. It has been: Only about 15 days since my last sexual encounter with anyone. I happened to find my vibrator today after it had been mysteriously missing for decades. We went at it for about 7 minutes, afterwhich I groped at the sky and mouthed questions. I love him a little bit. He is better than anything I have else. And that is the worrisome. That I could possibly tear my own existence to shreds for some fantasm I’ve producted from years, birthed again anew & from pieces of my own flesh memory.
I still look forward to it, yes.
3:18 am
Dear diary, I am obviously not speaking or gesturing with a wineglass to his child’s portrait in a photocopy stuck to my wall. I am glad. Ovenmouthed, glad. I understand that Tucson could very well mean instrumentals and recordings. As long as I have A. Beard and someone who has instruments and happens a musician to be, a pretty future holds. In a climate such as, nonetheless, healthful habitat all hot and hearts helped.
I am tired. I poured another wine, and fancied what if I could (and I could) make a disc for him what would it be. A poem from titles, nonelse, happenably unwritten by me.
12:57
The desert landscape is associated with a pain one might choose
I read this just a minute ago on Ron Silliman’s bog. He’s talking about a poem called “It seemed a similar choice although in an adjacent register” by Martha Ronk.
Today I’m less than joyfilled, a lot I’m sure having to do with my sleeping a lot later than planned, maybe the whispers of a hangover (fucked up upon going to sleep last night but happy, I felt happy) and again having that crisis of, what the fuck am I doing again? Wanting to abandon NY right away… but the desert? What the hell am I going to do in the desert? Live in a hot, dusty apartment, have a succulent garden, spend time with the desert, look at sunsets, be happy, be in love…
So completely unlike what I’m doing here. I wish I had chosen something else. Well I still can, news for you.
