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40 minutes in NYC

Sat, Nov 24, 2012
40 minutes in Tribeca on the way from Newtown to Boston is all we have before the parking meter runs out so I transcribe the light of the setting sun in shorthand (a cricket clutter of shutter clicks) while you look for a bathroom. the sun is running out like a roll of toilet paper waning into weary ribbons as it soars toward heaven, forgetful of the symmetries of the parabola,

r*

Thu, Nov 15, 2012
do you suffer from depression i want to ask but meanwhile electronic trance pours a silky tea into our ears steeped in the red that pervades this room here we are in San Francisco on a bright night two people alone with our insomnia blooming like violent wildflowers and loose lightning our mouths draw the shapes of dim perceptions washed from a broken flow of melatonin you spread over the sheets, skinny as daylight in winter,

composed in SFO airport while waiting for the redeye back to Boston

Mon, Apr 9, 2012
so I don’t know whether to turn around at your doorway so hesitation drips the milk from sore eyes so I scratch the walls so I peel flakes of plaster tumble like dead moths erode my fingernails which have grown long and desperate like homeless shadows before the sun rises we dimple red sheets under hard white ceilings limbs curled into smiles and then we are chasing each other canyons underfoot