We are 30 year old men riding bicycles
to get cigarettes.
The silence is broken when he asks about her.
Sometimes I have to be reminded of my obsessions.
He asks me if I asked her out.
Should I?
No, he says, it’s weird.
She can make everything look artistic,
sensual. Cutting lemons?
You’re a pervert he says.
An old woman yells furiously at us for taking up the side walk.
We yell obscenities back.
Now we are 30 year old men who ride bicycles and abuse the elderly.
Sometimes I have to be reminded of my obsessions.
We don’t smoke.
I know we are going to get cigarettes.
But there are 20 cigarettes per pack
This is much cheaper than food.
He tells me she looks ten years my junior.
I think she is.
Does it sound better to explain it this way or
ten years her senior?
Stop thinking he says.
What?
Don’t ask her out.
Who? Oh, okay, yeah it’s weird you’re right.
Sometimes I have to be reminded of my obsessions.
Don’t do it.
Don’t worry, I won’t.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Somewhere in New Mexico
Somewhere in New Mexico a lonely Samba sits.
My favorite shoes are Sambas.
I've had them so long. So very long.
But somewhere in New Mexico a lonely Samba sits.
The left Samba kneels next to my door.
It whimpers now and then.
Don’t know what happened.
Too busy fleeing a scene, or too hung-over to pack right.
Either way, one fell out while camping, and now sits,
pointed west.
My favorite shoes are Sambas.
I've had them so long. So very long.
But somewhere in New Mexico a lonely Samba sits.
The left Samba kneels next to my door.
It whimpers now and then.
Don’t know what happened.
Too busy fleeing a scene, or too hung-over to pack right.
Either way, one fell out while camping, and now sits,
pointed west.
Friday, June 18, 2010
When I was a kid
When I was a kid
I use to think the rolling hills
were hibernating monsters
ready to wake at any moment
with wicked alluvial talons
lethargically rising
shaking off granite sleep
stumbling-roaring
gaining momentum
hungrily chasing
our furiously fleeing
red minivan
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