sugar

paris was old architecture.


--


songs for the sailors, songs
for the tourists-- nothing, and
nothing. the light
in the evenings makes me sad, she said.
and i kissed her. i kissed
her, and she tasted of clementines,
and tea, drunk by the ocean.
and i wanted to take her
home, make her fish,
strip the pale pink flesh from
the bones, and feed her,
lemons, & summer butter--
and i kissed her-- promised

her roses, rosy and delicate as her cheeks or
pale as sand & cream, and she laughed
at me. and i knew 
it to be bitter. so i did not want
to cook her fish. i did not
want to lay her on my bed,
i did not want to kiss her,
as so sweetly.

and she tasted my cigarettes,
and she tasted my coffee
gone black and cold,
and she kissed me, and
she kissed me, and i could
taste the drift & ebb;
waves rescinding into colder water.
and she walked away.
her footprints imprinted
to the ocean. i did not
count them, and i did not follow her.

on a tuesday, months later

I do my best. I really do.

I was about to up and leave the cafe, but a song came on.

It was lovely, though I thought it was going to be prettier than it was.

There's a man, --a guy, really, (because what is a man or a woman these days?) -- who wants to slide over and put his arm around this gorgeous stranger sitting at the table next to his.

People fall in love, all the time. Little moments. The day is young.

I think I'd like to live in the financial district.  I'd get up, go work for a few hours-- and then idle in a cafe and write. Watch the light change over fire-escapes.

I know it gets lonely and quiet at night here, but I think I'd like it.  I don't mind the solitude.

So many buildings / so many souls behind glass.

I wonder how many people wander by their windows, at the hours between 10 & sleep, and think about all the other people in the city.  

I bet they don't. They have no reason to.  
There's never a reason to be alone, unless you want to be.  There's never a reason to be lonely, unless you choose to be. The solitary life is fair enough. 

I think all young people are caught between alone and not, and lost & not-- but the direction is good. We are all going along our paths, to whatever our end destinations are.

We all look for signs & directions. Options everywhere. Such safe answers.
Risk & chance, and less and less to touch, and less and less to hurt. But what is there to love? 
I want to. I really do.

Choose your own page.  2, 4, 16, 25, or shake up the rules and jump to the middle of the book, or the last page. Happiness or death, or redirection to some other page, but it's your own journey.

That's not a good enough reason to read a book.  I want something I can mull on and love.

I want a well-written book, and well, that takes a kind of certainty.

I'm not in love, but I'm also not not-in-love.  What do you call that feeling -- that's not discontent, nor dissatisfied?

It must be what a mote feels, little dust particle in sunlight.

If it's a feeling, the word is not in German, nor in French, or any old world tongue-- but in English, --and perhaps, the strictly American, New York City kind.

We're all little atoms anyway, muddled up in the same high charge/ low charge medium.

Most importantly though, is the universe infinite, or finite?

tuning

little bird sitting on the top of the tree,
the sky is blue.

smash my guitar. 
shattered wood. 

so softly it weeps.
i could tear the cords out, 

find the bones in my fingers
on six, suppliant wires.