Oh, these August babies! All hot in their mother’s womb. Like a vacation in hell, but you like it. I’m sure that the croupier’s hair is teased to hide the horns beneath. I’ve spent too much. Now in the bedroom, I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking of you a lot. When I imagine that Mississippi river basin out there, the one I saw when going to bed this morning, you are walking across it in a cotton dress. Sweaty and hair sticking to your neck, you are walking across it toward me this time. I feel you in my heart in this flat place. I feel you there intensely. I hope it is not just imagination. That is you? Cotton dress? Sweat and hair? You are walking toward me? Or is it away? Is the heat that rises, mixed with river water, creating mirages on the horizon? My kingdom for you to be here for just 5...
My baby just called me, drunk after the party, to say she loves me and misses me, and just after I had fallen asleep in this old new bed that has yet to be christened again and it woke me up and I wish she would do it again and again and...
Out tonight, the neighbors are having a party, and all up and down this street are cars, parked where yours did once and I came home worried about potential blockage to the back drive after watching Charade with Shannon at the new house that he and his wife and new baby have in Reynoldstown. I drank a beer a couple of gin and tonics had a burger a Coke and a movie and at midnight find myself back here with a picture of you floating in the air… just simply floating. I put on a shirt that you bought me with a shirt that you bought me on top like a double hug tonight because you were not here. Burger, gin and tonic, beer. Stop. Western Union and Pony Express. Your quackery is on the shelf. It’s all gonna be alright. Still the love of your life. It’s all gonna be alright. Beatles playing cards. It’s all gonna be alright. Western shirt and empty bed. It’s all gonna be alright. When I imagine dreams, and they will come, you will be floating there, just above the horizon, just simply floating. Your heart will be a house and you will hold it in your hand. The sign out front will not be for rent or for sale, it will just say for me to move back in. House, shirt, cards, comfort, and...
Tonight is nothing, I am supposed to be nothing too, or at least happy, and to be sure, this house is really nothing, a nothing you once thanked me so much for, but nothing can bring this nothing back. Nothing acting on nothing. The orange glow from the pub sign atop the refrigerator with the ice maker is nothing, and the picture of you applying mascara in the bathroom on the hall, your bathroom, is, too, now nothing. The oven stench from tonight’s frozen pizza is nothing, and I fear that where I sit here, in this room, and write this is nothing, and I too, and so is this nothing as well? The times we made love on the living room floor, atop a flea market throw will soon be nothing, and only later will other lovers hear maybe an echo, but ultimately echoes are nothing. Ultimately, the Florida room is nothing, and the 5000 packs of cigarette smoke there is nothing, as smoke always is. This house is smoke, this house is burning, this house will soon be nothing but a spot two blocks from where you chose once, in my absence, to carve our initials for the ages into a mound of concrete, and to then come back here, when here was...
I am sitting here waiting on you to return from a gender exclusive affair on the other end of the street, and every car passing turns down the one street and continues down the other and at times I convince myself, that tonight you’ve decided not to come back. You told me yesterday you were leaving, not me but here, this place that we found so perfect. You needed an adventure, one in which you hoped to find yourself, and today we went and looked at particularly adventuresome spots. Tonight I am waiting, after pizza, water, orange juice, cigarettes, and the glass door tilted in, and the glass windows tilted out, and the screen door shut, and the bugs humming – all cars make the turn and continue straight, sitting and smoking, I hear clanking of keys and think it is you, but it is just ghost, as the whole place soon will be, little by little, until nothing of matter of either of us will be...
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