Well now.
I've become an SG addict. So long, Myspace.
Sadly (oh the tears tracking down my face!) I won't be having any consistent access to the web, the net, the vas deferens of God or whathaveyou, for most of the fall and winter.
But I'll be checking in.

Here are a few little things I wrote the other night for you (?) to enjoy. Ciao, and slainte.

"New York"

I would like to visit New York. I don't want to live in New York though, or write about New York. It'd be alright to see my work in the New Yorker but I don't want to work in New York or be a New Yorker. Even Woody Allen's making movies in London now. God dammit I don't want to write about New York or its New Yorkers but I think might have just now.

No...I wrote about me.



"Boredom on the Floor"

The coffee percolating

sounds like keys in the door

which for a moment panics me

but still I drink coffee more

and with fingertips

sift paperclips

I flung out of boredom on the floor.



"Balls"

Maybe I was five when my friend and I (he also must have been maybe five) crouched in a patch of thin woods molding mudballs in our callousless hands. An older boy rode by on his bike and we let our balls go, mine landing smack on the older boy's cheek. I tried to run; my friend was off already (I later pitched the minor leagues but never stole a base) and the older boy caught me, shook and scolded me until I cried. But it's funny what many years and miles will do to your emotions, because now when I picture this scene, alone, I laugh aloud.

(10/17/07)
Dedicated, for the hell of it, to Zaree.

Well now.
I've become an SG addict. So long, Myspace.
Sadly (oh the tears tracking down my face!) I won't be having any consistent access to the web, the net, the vas deferens of God or whathaveyou, for most of the fall and winter.
But I'll be checking in.

Here are a few little things I wrote the other night for you (?) to enjoy. Ciao, and slainte.

"New York"

I would like to visit New York. I don't want to live in New York though, or write about New York. It'd be alright to see my work in the New Yorker but I don't want to work in New York or be a New Yorker. Even Woody Allen's making movies in London now. God dammit I don't want to write about New York or its New Yorkers but I think might have just now.

No...I wrote about me.



"Boredom on the Floor"

The coffee percolating

sounds like keys in the door

which for a moment panics me

but still I drink coffee more

and with fingertips

sift paperclips

I flung out of boredom on the floor.



"Balls"

Maybe I was five when my friend and I (he also must have been maybe five) crouched in a patch of thin woods molding mudballs in our callousless hands. An older boy rode by on his bike and we let our balls go, mine landing smack on the older boy's cheek. I tried to run; my friend was off already (I later pitched the minor leagues but never stole a base) and the older boy caught me, shook and scolded me until I cried. But it's funny what many years and miles will do to your emotions, because now when I picture this scene, alone, I laugh aloud.

(10/17/07)
Dedicated, for the hell of it, to Zaree.