It’s Saturday and I have the window open next to my desk, that feels some like some kind of victory. I’m listening to the self titled Crystal Castles record, and drinking a cup of coffee that was so hot, I had to put an ice cube in it: that’s what happens in my percolator, maing.
I wanted to share some poems and stuff today, before this three things happen #1 I exercise so I don’t wind up a fat crippled old man #2 I take Spout on the train downtown for some brunch in the sunshine #3 I meet up with some writer friends at a roof top bar for a birthday party for a good amigo of mine.
there was a woman
on the radio
talking all about
how great it is to eat flowers
bees like them for the nectar
so will/do we
and the texture!
try them in a fucking salad!
I look at my dying
all sunshine doomed
and take out a carton
Keep Replaying Side B
when I’m all busted up and lost, I realize it
because I’m not seeking out new music
I’m just sitting in this same floral chair
lifting the arm with the needle
and going back to the start of track five
but all that will be fixed, today
the flowers are jumping out of the sidewalk
the cardboard boxes are there in an army
filled with cheap wax, three for five dollars
yesterday, I got a recommendation
Dvorak, The New World symphony
that sounds about motherfucking right.
See You Later, Alligator
interests include: opening the window, letting the birds in off the fire escape; watching my wife get tan in white sand; grey bats criss crossing the moon, fireworks not burning any houses down, but maybe catching the top of an insignificant 300 year old maple; swimming, always swimming, arms outstretched in an aqua marine hot spring
not to mention: dark rum, shirtless in the afternoon; driving reckless down a mountain, sheer drops on either stupid side; new sunglasses found on the sidewalk; everything stinking like coconut, finally; the dew running off the branch, slapping the ledge outside, like an alarm doing its job right.
but this: the other night, for the first time, the ice cream truck arrived. It parked and played its broken glass circus song on loop for an hour. It would have been more, but I finally put my shoes on and walked out of the apartment. The sidewalks were empty and the sun had gone down. I was the only one, troubled. I said to the ice cream man, “why don’t you move along–you’re parked right underneath our goddamn window.” He said, “Not going anywhere.” The song continued. The truck stayed. I went back upstairs. My wife said, laughing, “Looks like that didn’t work.” I said, “I know what we’ll do. I’ll get a bunch of watermelons. And I’ll drop them on his truck, one by one.” She said, “Nothing feels more like summer than a watermelon war.”
I hope everybody has a good weekend. I’ve got the music going pretty loud here now. And, outside the window, the birds are going crazy. There’s guys doing construction on my street. I can hear them yelling back and forth like crazy, not to mention the goddamned bike riders, those peeps dressed in full spandex, they zoom by yelling at the construction workers, “GET OUT OF THE WAY, YOU’RE IN THE BIKE LANE!” I’m waiting for one of them to get knocked off their bikes with a shovel.