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.