VIEW FROM MY KITCHEN WINDOW

An escape

Panicked, whether by certainty or a lack of it, he took refuge in the ambiguity of another language and made a promise that could be translated to taste.

A LOVE SONG OF SORTS

The nasty stabs of breaking pens against this pad of paper remind me of lesser moods. It'll be some pages yet before the marks have all been thrown away. Or kept. Yesterday, I had a good conversation with an amazing young woman. Some of it was silly talk about sea-creature Halloween costumes: "I've heard the mermaids singing." Some was loving, about the elegance in the flicks of her wrist. But the most important bits were of us and what to do with us. Though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, I felt I had little productive to say. Luckily, an energy between she and me spurred my feeling to word. I may be a bit crazy, but I'm no Prince Hamlet. I'm just trying to be a nice guy: deferential, glad to be of use. (At the risk of being obtuse.) I like to think that I'm aware, cautious, and meticulous, and I admit to being ridiculous, and even, at times, the Fool. But I know we can make it through. We just need to work out the pages with the stab marks and get back to a fresh start.

My accordion gait

Today is that rare day when it would be useful to have someone around who might notice the flick of my wrist as I throw the pallu over my shoulder, my accordion gait as I walk through the door.

I KNOW I DRANK TOO MUCH

I know I drank too much because I allowed myself to hope that you'd be home when I got home. Instead, there was mail in the mailbox; the entire apartment had been cleaned; and a note on a dish of freshly made pear cake made me tear up. And you forgot to lock the backdoor when you did laundry. You always forget that.

The story

This is the story: You robbed me blind, warning me against possession. I had less; you pitied me. I asked if we might share and you said you could spare nothing. I pined for old comforts; you sneered at my nostalgia. I starved; you related your struggles with eating. Now you are silent; I am absent. Now you are silent, and I?

ALL THE THINGS I HAVE

All of the things that I have are coming out through my eyes and my nose and some low place in my throat. Everything from my chin to my pelvis is a knot. I'm being wrung dry like a towel.

An explanation

It's the brown, mostly. And the buttons and the braids. And the banana in my glove compartment for four days and that tulsi tea bag and the change of season fever and the shape of my trousers and the hole in my shirt and the wool between my ears and this leftover gooseflesh and this brick in my hand and the green around my middle finger and my idiotic memory and foolish bravado, my ambition, my listlessness, my recalcitrance and eagerness. It's really only those things.

THE NEED TO DESTROY SMALL THINGS

Both

TAXING THE STREETS

Rave

In a narrow alley, outside a shuttered temple, hangs a tiny disco ball. A lizard wags its tail under the spatter of coloured light on the wall. I emerge from a glass pyramid with a whiskey drawl.

SCRIPT

I borrowed stole my script from an old friend and from a man writing on the sidewalk with chalk. The words are mine, but they remind me of the people whose shapes I use.

Blindsided

For hours you stood, waiting for a bus, squinting into the sun. Suddenly there are four, and you have forgotten where you intended to go.

Did you water the tomato plant? Did you wipe clean the spilt milk? Did you close tightly the lid of the coffee tin?

Which bus are you on?