radio

when we drive, we always start with the first channel,

scroll to the next,

and down,

until we've fallen into some obscure plane of dada notes,

cool jazz or lukewarm oldies as we try on warbly country on dirt roads, and motown even though we live too comfortably and carefully to really know what the man is singing about,

so I ask for permission to switch the radio off, and you assent.

radio off, I plug in my little glass and plastic phone, find an aria where the queen of the night demands murder. 

the soprano is a wisp. I find someone else, 

a less pretty chanteuse with heavy coloratura, 

start a tall road story, about sopranos who sing offkey, and other sopranos who relish it.

we would've never been friends in high school.

bulky

apples, a bag,

fuji, gala, a blondee, crispin gold. a new name for each rose.

a pink darling blossomed, high up on the tree,

and myself, too short to reach, so i plucked dying leaves,

and sent you autumn, instead of letters i wouldn't mean.

wisp

wisp

ink, hair, a child for you,

a house, a husband.

in the mirror, my locks have grown too long;

we are nearly twins again,

if you were the sky, and myself, the ocean at night.

fish

fish in october

no one was angry at dinner.

the moon shone. they laughed, unfamiliar with the lightness.

it did not take very long to cook dinner,

only five hours.

---

can't draw.

late night TV on your phone, infomercial after ad as you scroll your feeds,

martinis, with a twist, one, two, netherland vodka because it's so good and clean,

the undesirable waft of your neighbor's smoke, cigarettes, sometimes weed, but the evening breeze is so needed in november.

insomnia is a familiar thing, like sleeping in your ex's bed, or laying awake with all the things that clog your mind.

poetry is not a diary, but what if I don't have enough story for a film? what if all I want are distilled photos of people in solitude, in the night, or in some alleyway at least.

well, that's a lie. sometimes i want to see that intimacy, proof that love exists in the little moments, all imperfect, like lovers tangled in their sleep through a window.

i want to be in the room where those looks exchange. why watch movies when you can watch people talk? is this voyeurism? no, i don't want to see them fuck. i want to see their souls when they shed their skins, put these feels in a globe where i can shake the snow and relive these things that matter.

my boss once said that being a bartender was like being on a stage; you perform for your customers, and give them what they want, but I don't think that's entirely right. I think the bar is a room, and the room is the stage for everyone else; you're just nudging the party to where it really wants to be.