when i had finally gotten you alone
that summer evening crammed us
into a table between a wrinkled sugar
mamma with the candy shed kept soft
in her pocket and two balding faggots. we
squeezed between those facing mirrors,
flanked infinitely by sagging women
and taut men whose conversations heaped
thick over porcelain, half-eaten, and clacked
and droned in layers of sticky july air
barely able to hear what i was saying you
brushed your lips against a glass of table wine
like you would my nape in moonlight.
- yours truly
tonight i am wonderfully drunk, terribly vain, and strangely solitary.
i miss new york. i miss my amigos. but mostly i miss the woman - she could have easily been a man, what's a chromosome to the heart? - that i wrote this about a long long time ago. how many miles is many months? years? what if there was a methadone for memory? would we take it? or would we let our mind idle that information and eventually mothball it. usually i would say yes. . .yes to the cobwebs and yes to the locked trunk that i could keep these things in. right now, though, i am lost in it. like an old photo album from my childhood that i'd forgotten and found. . .fumblng through it feverishly for any trace of those holy moments.
it's funny how time adds and substracts itself from our everyday.
i feel 18 and i feel 80.
nostalgia and longing are beautiful and cruel bedfellows.
in western puerto rico - in vieques - there is this wonderful sea of bioluminescent phytoplankton, and when you swim in it you'd swear you were immortal. i'm going back there. . .
that summer evening crammed us
into a table between a wrinkled sugar
mamma with the candy shed kept soft
in her pocket and two balding faggots. we
squeezed between those facing mirrors,
flanked infinitely by sagging women
and taut men whose conversations heaped
thick over porcelain, half-eaten, and clacked
and droned in layers of sticky july air
barely able to hear what i was saying you
brushed your lips against a glass of table wine
like you would my nape in moonlight.
- yours truly
tonight i am wonderfully drunk, terribly vain, and strangely solitary.
i miss new york. i miss my amigos. but mostly i miss the woman - she could have easily been a man, what's a chromosome to the heart? - that i wrote this about a long long time ago. how many miles is many months? years? what if there was a methadone for memory? would we take it? or would we let our mind idle that information and eventually mothball it. usually i would say yes. . .yes to the cobwebs and yes to the locked trunk that i could keep these things in. right now, though, i am lost in it. like an old photo album from my childhood that i'd forgotten and found. . .fumblng through it feverishly for any trace of those holy moments.
it's funny how time adds and substracts itself from our everyday.
i feel 18 and i feel 80.
nostalgia and longing are beautiful and cruel bedfellows.
in western puerto rico - in vieques - there is this wonderful sea of bioluminescent phytoplankton, and when you swim in it you'd swear you were immortal. i'm going back there. . .
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
The fuckin' big arse of a crow,
I'd fly over Highbury tomorrow,
And shit on the bastards below