Bolder

Listening to El Scorcho, feel like yelling into the attic air (which is sultry, unfortunately)

TAKE ME NOW and reciting poetry while everything happens FUCKING very quickly and very very...angrily and is all full of regret and mess and banging pots and pans and shrieks. It has been such a very long time.

I think you know what I'm talking about.

Wrote this at work while I ought to have been shoving moderately-priced "French" salads into the willing mouths of rich, doting Suburban Bethesdites who gladly assume that the entire waitstaff of Francophone Africans at La Madeleine are in some kind of Horatio Alger program, smiling, doting and wide-eyed when I say "It's my first day." But I am being harsh and predictable, this is not the point:

Breakfast:

we are background noise

you are evidence

dirty dishes

clinking forks (*cling-queen, hehehe)

characters in someone else's bio-flick, anecdotes, half-baked ideas

Smart Choices:

come in from the rain

shake water over ratty old china tea-cups

smooth wicker flesh

sand man.

drink me!

put me to your lips and sipppppp

we'll be damp from the outside, blind from the fog 

since we have such a lifetime, you and 

I suggest we twitch into infamy

endearing and chastising

no day, even, to waste-

let us imagine away disease and cockroaches

as we wait for a table

--picnic, lightning; moon, overture; timpani, tiramisu

Thought: The loneliest sound in the world is a solitary clinking fork.

Savoury Entrees:

I might predict the way you run your fingers over the smooth polygon of a dessert case. I might have, I ought to, have predicted, predilected, seen that coming. You'd be lusting after some sugar-glazed treasure, idle, bouncing on your toes for circulation purposes. Two eyes on the clock but still somehow enough gaze to spare for me--just outside your periphery. We grin together.

Should it, could I, does it shock you, you imagine, I write poetry, someone, you wish, someone, expect/imagine/is thinking you stand like a triangle, think like...someone in charge. 

I read in "Ballistics" by Billy Collins this whole poem centered around that quote by...someone...it says that poems are never finished, merely abandoned. I tend to agree. Also, if you have the book, you should read "Four Moons" because it's my favorite. Or, you know, just solicit me for no-strings-attached...artistic reckoning.