Tuesday, January 3, 2012

number 11

coffee taste on the
inside of a mouth along with hunger,
and perspiring underarms beneath a silky
blouse. maybe.
tiny hairs on knuckles.
crossed legs.
a morroccan kitchen and
mexican cooks.
filmy, hungry coffee mouth.
hunger like a hallowed out
agitation and love.
maybe men's haircuts and magazines,
nicoise salads at cafe de flore and
finger pointing i said "that's because
i'm always aiming for paris."
at the conservatoire or the opera,
place de la concorde, tiny cold
feet with sores and a blue french
countryside in the dark from a train.
missing a place like a hallowed out
agitation and love.
gloom that hits the top of your cheeks and
the insides of your wrists.
backwards goldleaf letters on a window
that remind you of -
puckered lips for your filmy coffee mouth
and hunger.
and i can feel my impatience on the
inside of my nose and the bottoms
of my ears, the innermost ridge of
my left palm, the fingertips of my
right hand, where i touch things.
and also where your heart beats.
finding that i love cement floors and
tea with honey. big bowls of food and
sitting low on the floor.
and like sylvia i wish i could try on
different lives like dresses. i'd put on a
yellow one and walk down a dirty
brazilian alleyway.
the kind of fantasies i have when i sit
low on the floor listening to stan getz
getting all swirly and dreamy and heavy
eyed, waiting for something to finish baking
or someone to come over.
and sometimes i think it's time to get
out of america anyway.
paying rent to corporations but how
would i leave LA anyway?
cursive letters and koreatown gangs
and my treehouse, no.
cooking with neighbors and popping off
beer caps. full tummies and a hard day's work,
sweeping on eyeliner and heading out after dark
up and down dirty steps, finding a spot in
the parking lot.
whispers and remember.
capping things off and yelling in the street.
looking at twelve months
like a timeline with a beginning and end,
like a distance we've traveled and always
how far we've come and always how fast it went.
wondering who'll get up to flip the
record and whispers and remember.
stocking the fridge, doing the dishes,
good morning and good bye.
treehouse leaves and memorizing lines.
sitting up late with hunger, my friend,
hunger like pain like a hallowed out agitation
and love. missing the space you take up
on the tops of my cheeks and insides of
my wrists.
hunger and -
aiming for -
cooking together, the weather,
and whispers and remember.

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