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Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

life and death

Today I picked up the remains of my cat that died in a hospital much nicer than any people's hospital--brick walls, a wire sculpure of a mermaid hanging from the ceiling and color coded files. Paloma was in a cherry wood box with a gold lock and key, died a year ago and four days.

Then I went to visit my friends in the hospital that had a baby yesterday. He's the tiniest human I've ever seen. Looked up at me with a peaceful, disgruntled seriousness. Made sounds not unlike a cat, actually.

One friend told me she made a life plan for me--to live upstate with a gay man and have a baby. Another friend says don't give up on the old fashioned love thing yet. You have a lot to offer someone normal who wants what you want. You just look in the wrong places.

Meanwhile, traffic on 280 continues out my window. Sounds like deep sighs, like ocean and air. People driving around and around in metal boxes, going home to look at screens, maybe hold someone, breathe.

Monday, July 25, 2005


I'm starting to think all men are weak.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

head in the sand.

The next Friday, they arrived. There was no talk of dried rinds. She climbed the hill, lay down in the weeds and wept. Two sisters left, Dad laughed. Others took up aeronautics. Damage had been done and would be lived with, on a mountain, in a small town, in cities, in sleep. They drove around and around the golden city following the rules of the road. They had forgotten their destination. On rare occasions when her genius was acknowledged she considered disrobing. Otherwise it was folded in the drawers and they fucked like rabbits. The moon chipped its enamel, the man was put in a soft cage. There he could holler all day if he liked, and have plenty of time for reflection. She found something online about forceps, something about strawberries with balsamic. There was only ever so much insurance. Thanks for the help, but I prefer to be wrong. There was a beautiful song filled with regret, longing and wild red strings, but he would never turn over the rock. Several months passed and it was like a burning forest just beneath the epidermis. He was very determined, very accomplished. An old woman watched him walk across the town, a sweet boy, she thought, trying so hard. He will keep coming back. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement. One gets to disappear. The other is kept alive.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

the abdomens of the angel

(the following is one of my poems translated into Dutch, then back to English)

Sleeping with Emily Dickinson

I within by the window, its sweet flesh bring surreptitiously to take. We giggle in white nightgowns concerning the books active concerning its hyphens, its intentionality, the scepticisme of unanswered love. I would be very quiet. I would say what is not important. Take her to the window, open the extremely small klokkengelui leave below her its, tease the its curtains white concerning its attitude, undulating nacht-wind. The abdomens of the angel. The share of We'd a cigarette. She'd such as that - light wrong step of suicide which interrupts the ogenblikgefluister: Where it is I go -- when we here still both only is its ghostwhitehand keep whispering: I hear what does not write down you.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

some things my friends have said lately, translated into german, then back into english.

it so possibly seems straight that it had to be ill you, it could believe that strongly or superior or it which otherwise was it have could wanted to feel. everyone, which threatens, to designate the spindles is totalthick. As you laehmen. Is he a regular-sorted boy or one of that mini, which taenzelt approximately into an upper hat and exercises a stick for the astonishment of the Brotkrumen everywhere? Obviously you earn better than a mini. I do not wish my tax dollar, those toward to go. it was as much luckier than you.