lunatic city

night time is the worst. did you feel the earthquake? it made me nervous and start thinking how awful it would be if you werent able to say goodbye. it all feels very morbid. i have to stop watching dexter before bed. it gives me creepy dreams. vicodin helps.


lately
i feel like faulkner
no subject or verb
quit putting me in paragraphs
ill never fit
the way you
want
me to


we go to the MOMA and do that silent walk, that museum goers do when everyone is pretending to look at the art but really are seriously bored out of their minds and horny from the silence. all we want to be doing is tearing each others clothes off and fucking and then laying in bed and smoking cigarettes in his loft bed above his rehearsal studio but we have to get credit for class, so we skip the lines and rub up against each other in corners when no ones looking. there are two paintings, encased in glass in the middle of the room, some silver plated tree branches and sky. i keep an eye close on him, while
pretending i care about the artwork, total period bullshit that neither of us are into anyway, put my hands up on the glass, my face, close my eyes for a minute, wishing we could get the hell out of there. i only had a string cheese today and a gatorade from his fridge that was warm and im feeling faint. im starting to get sick listening to hushed voices talking, babbling like art critics, pretentious fucks, he always says. opening my eyes, he is opposite me, breathing on the glass and writing my name with his finger, like a fogged up window. i laugh tremendously and drop my bag on the floor which causes the loudest hush ive ever heard. he looks at everyone and bows. deeply and graciously which makes me laugh even harder and when we get kicked out its understandable. he lights a cigarette in the lobby just to prove a point, the lighter his grandfather gave him encased in leather, flicks quickly from his hand, to his face, to his jeans, snug in back pocket. im thinking how a museum is really perfect for us, all that talking we dont know how to do. outside its hot and his dog is laying on the cement, drooling and waiting for us with her big cow eyes. we walk, silently, down market, sweating and smoking. i use a book of matches because i love the way his lighter feels so much i cant bare it, like if i use it too much it will be just another thing to miss when hes gone. its too much him, musty smell and worn. just another thing i know he cares about more than me. at uptown market we stop for whiskey and ginger ale, more cigs for him, water for the dog. inside his place its stale, and there is the casual undressing i have come to love. its too hot as usual and we work better unclothed. he says to me after, distracted, not looking, hands in my hair, you look better through glass, you look nice magnafied but far away. im picking a scab on his arm and roll over to the side of the bed where theres water in a jar, drink in long painful swallows, listen to the city through the flung open windows and let my eyes tear up. theres matches on the window sil and i light another cig, smoke, think, smoke think. keep cover closed, be safe. this feels appropriate, naked, on his bed, silent, no words to say, just trying to keep cool, to pretend were both not just a little afraid.



and a poem, for all you lovers out there, cuidado con tus corizones

love crosses its islands, from grief to grief,
it sets its roots, watered with tears,
and no one-no one-can escape the hearts progress
as it runs, silent and carnivorous

you and i searched for a wide valley, for another planet
where the salt wouldnt touch your hair,
where sorrows couldnt grow because of anything i did,
where bread could live and not grow old

a planet entwined with vistas and foliage,
a plain, a rock, hard and unoccupied:
we wanted to build a strong nest

with our own hands, without hurt or harm or speech,
but love was not like that: love was a lunatic city
with crowds of people blanching on their porches