WEEKEND GLIMPSES

Business venture: Heironymus Bosch's Burlesque. Who's with me?

me: you know what's the best ars poetica?
him: what?
me: people.
him: people. i guess they make a pretty good ars poetica but i don't know that they're the best.
(silence. i try to make out his expression in the dark.)
him: i'm sorry. that sounded mean. people---i like it. i do. it's so simple.
me: you kiss like a poem

Friday night: I-and-three-others jumped a fence, scaled a wall and wandered into the as-yet-unfinished skeleton of the new dormitory on campus. The paint was cloudy, the fine wood-dust unswept and blanketting the halls like ash like snow like the stuff of salt flats. Only some rooms were lit--it was a veritable labyrinth of a place. The strangest part was that the power boxes were all exposed with the words BRIGHT FUTURE spraypainted in yellow on the front. So as we walked the halls, it was just a receding horizon-line of totems promising BRIGHT FUTURE BRIGHT FUTURE bright future. Made me feel remote. I pretended the winding halls were nervous pathways, that we ourselves were nerves traveling electric. Lately I'm all impulse. Then again, everything is.

Different night, different boy: Joe tried to teach me how to waltz in the alleyway while the party raged on inside. Beauty of squares and synchronized steps. He told me that God works in three-quarters time. His gaze was so intentional I had to look away.

My band's next act of meaningful vandalism: we are going to make murals in the parking decks with sidewalk chalk. I am going to draw an L in front of all the ONLY turn symbols on the ground. So that drivers will see the truth as they descend down the ramps: LONLY, LONLY, LONLY.

Forget standard seasons. You know it is summer in the South when the mosquitos take over. Little vampires.

Also if you have never pied your best friend on her birthday, well, you should.

As for Saturday night/Sunday morning:

I rearranged him into a poem with ease.

Scar shaped like a sickle. Mannerist hands&feet.

A boy in the act of disappearing.

What to do. What to do. What to do.

What kissing What roughness What.

Imagine a boy turning to you in bed and saying, "I am not to be trusted."
What game of Cowboys and Indians and Poets is this?