I was throwing out all these teeth like books that I read and ate and walking back to my father’s type writer over and over again listening to classical, mostly Brahms and the whiteness and all the things we can do on the white. Thinking about the way Tshcosky thought
The girls that we can kiss and pull gingerly by the wrist and spin into music with the bright lights and a million “yes”
We watch them and document it, there with our cameras. The lights are always on, and we keep or bodies all night which means we keep all or senses, which means I kept it all when it was happening from the tiniest kiss to the car bombs that exploded around the world.
Do you think she knows this… about me?
My animal ways or lateness on the scene, opening mail boxes just to see what people thought?
Do you think she knows how good I can drive a car after 17 beers and two kebabs?’
About by pin ball skills or the fact that I could throw a tiny football through a tiny hold while we wait for hot wings, while you call all the black people dark, while the music seems to move through our veins.
You escaped and unfolded into this thing that I can only call up on the phone and say “hello”
I moved into this thing that never wants to forget all the things that happened then.
We smoked cigarettes out of windows and took leaks onto the snow below. I pulled all the girls in by the wrist and slept until I couldn’t sleep no more. You wrote funny things on your door. You wrote funny things on your messenger and then later on your website and blog…
I myself thought it was pretty important to wade through the darkness that we create, and I did, so much so that I was stuck in places where I had a son and San Juan, An Avon and Stuart island, a mail box and Brahms. A father that let me know what time it was.
How engaging.
When you get down to it.
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