I've made some small sojourns as of late. New Orleans and Baton Rouge and Athens. I spent a night in Picayune, where J now lives. Odd to think that he's been my best friend for five years and it was my first time meeting his father. Missing him so, I hate to admit that J's Mississippi life is so picturesque: a house hidden in the Delta, complete with a floating gazebo and a brilliant black dog. Though it was cold, we fell asleep on the roof. Star-gazing til our eyes went starry.
On the drive back, I passed an abandoned house. Full of goldenrod.
me: We all miss you. I say it aloud at least once a day.
j: I would say it, but then my father would notice I was talking to myself.
me: You mean he doesn't know?
j: I have inner dialogues all the time--your name is mentioned a lot. I meet with the committee of "who knows" and we talk. Well, they talk. I just listen.
me: Yeah...
j: Are you going to decorate yourself for all hallow's eve?
me: Yes. I am going to be a grail knight.
j: Guarding or searching for the grail?
me: Searching.
j: Ah, well. I have it.
Turned out that Perceval is not readily recognized by most. I got asked if I was the Statue of Liberty. 2010 definitely marks the strangest Halloween I've had. Woke up in P's bed, late for work and still drunk. Searched for my clothes only to realize I had nought but shining armor. How soft and how small he asked me to stay. My hand crushed against his chest. It seemed then that he was the boon I sought. A few hours later, we crossed paths at a party and he acted as if he hardly knew me. Continually I chase the False Knight. All sulks, I nursed my green grail, accepting all manner of mead from strangers.
I know better. I do. But knowing better is so much too little.
Received a long letter from Brooklyn. It was A's reply to the letter I wrote him a year-and-a-half ago, the letter he took to Spain with him. Explaining the ghost he wrestles, the ghost who until recently was him. Ghost-writing himself in trembling cursive, he told me about the brownstone tomb he haunts, the books buried in his chest like scarabs. I wonder: is the curse knowing? Or not?
Thinking now of Cypress trees. It is common knowledge that Cypress trees scoff at ghosts, especially those who write letters. Cypress trees which feed on the minerals tarrying in our emptied bodies. Whose roots crawl ever boneward.
My writing has been getting some attention lately. Which continually dumbfounds me. I read at a poetry reading in Athens, Georgia. A bearded stranger came up to me after. Kissed my hand and asked if we could make an abortion happen. Come again?
Rain has returned to the South and it's immaculate. My umbrella is a wilted black flower. No matter no matter. Water collects in my hair, alluding to all the things I can't. Everything ink washed. With a tin roof, it's hard to get out of bed. The rain keeps wandering into my dreams and vice versa. Dreamt of a house routinely carried away by water... Shared the rainy dark with my poetry teacher, crow-homeric bard that he is. He asked why I wasn't shopping a manuscript around. A manuscript? For a book.
A BOOK!
There's been less and less traffic at the music library. Undoubtedly it's just the lull before the storm of finals. Some nights, hours pass without my talking to anyone. It's those shifts that I linger in the stacks, whispering numbers to bookshelves. This my onlyest vigil.
On the drive back, I passed an abandoned house. Full of goldenrod.
me: We all miss you. I say it aloud at least once a day.
j: I would say it, but then my father would notice I was talking to myself.
me: You mean he doesn't know?
j: I have inner dialogues all the time--your name is mentioned a lot. I meet with the committee of "who knows" and we talk. Well, they talk. I just listen.
me: Yeah...
j: Are you going to decorate yourself for all hallow's eve?
me: Yes. I am going to be a grail knight.
j: Guarding or searching for the grail?
me: Searching.
j: Ah, well. I have it.
Turned out that Perceval is not readily recognized by most. I got asked if I was the Statue of Liberty. 2010 definitely marks the strangest Halloween I've had. Woke up in P's bed, late for work and still drunk. Searched for my clothes only to realize I had nought but shining armor. How soft and how small he asked me to stay. My hand crushed against his chest. It seemed then that he was the boon I sought. A few hours later, we crossed paths at a party and he acted as if he hardly knew me. Continually I chase the False Knight. All sulks, I nursed my green grail, accepting all manner of mead from strangers.
I know better. I do. But knowing better is so much too little.
Received a long letter from Brooklyn. It was A's reply to the letter I wrote him a year-and-a-half ago, the letter he took to Spain with him. Explaining the ghost he wrestles, the ghost who until recently was him. Ghost-writing himself in trembling cursive, he told me about the brownstone tomb he haunts, the books buried in his chest like scarabs. I wonder: is the curse knowing? Or not?
Thinking now of Cypress trees. It is common knowledge that Cypress trees scoff at ghosts, especially those who write letters. Cypress trees which feed on the minerals tarrying in our emptied bodies. Whose roots crawl ever boneward.
My writing has been getting some attention lately. Which continually dumbfounds me. I read at a poetry reading in Athens, Georgia. A bearded stranger came up to me after. Kissed my hand and asked if we could make an abortion happen. Come again?
Rain has returned to the South and it's immaculate. My umbrella is a wilted black flower. No matter no matter. Water collects in my hair, alluding to all the things I can't. Everything ink washed. With a tin roof, it's hard to get out of bed. The rain keeps wandering into my dreams and vice versa. Dreamt of a house routinely carried away by water... Shared the rainy dark with my poetry teacher, crow-homeric bard that he is. He asked why I wasn't shopping a manuscript around. A manuscript? For a book.
A BOOK!
There's been less and less traffic at the music library. Undoubtedly it's just the lull before the storm of finals. Some nights, hours pass without my talking to anyone. It's those shifts that I linger in the stacks, whispering numbers to bookshelves. This my onlyest vigil.
Sunday night, everyone got drunk. L's newest project consists of filming mundane things and playing them backwards. Eggs unsizzling and falling back into their eggshells. Butter solidifying from a golden pool, spelling out words. I carved a Venus de Milo out of cheese. On film, she rose up out of the pan. Smoke her seasurf. Naturally the house smelled awful. A and T were speaking in Spanish, miming out telenovelas. I was saddened by how much of the language I have forgotten in six months. A cradled my face in his hands, saying No están perdidas. Están guardadas.
In other news, I tried to quit smoking and failed.
In other news, Peter Streckfus spoke to our class about the book he is working on--his first since winning the Yale Series of Younger Poets prize. His book in which he is his own father. In which his soul is a fish. As he read, I realized all at once that I've never dreamt of my father.
In other news, I tried to quit smoking and failed.
In other news, Peter Streckfus spoke to our class about the book he is working on--his first since winning the Yale Series of Younger Poets prize. His book in which he is his own father. In which his soul is a fish. As he read, I realized all at once that I've never dreamt of my father.
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