it's good to keep lists

it is.
i wish i could have all these real pages
and crumple them up and flatten them
out again and glue them to my wall or
to the insides of my pink jacket and i'd
always have them and think "yes." oh.

)balloon hope
)danielle
)trying
)headliners
)valentines
)working for tips
)hope again

playhouse ( list )

_heineken
_shortbread
_closeouts
_harmonica
_space pace
_tile
_120
_ticketsss
_t.s. eliot
_think ( oleanna )

shower

i sit in the shower.
i have always done this.
to sit and wait.
to watch the drain.
to feel the rain.
naked,
sans shame.
legs outstretched.
wet; perplexed.
serious faced.
two feet, replaced.
i breathe softly.
i sit in the shower.
i sit and wait.
i kiss no man.
naked,
sans shame.

arthur rimbaud

because we sat up. dreaming and reading. and when i heard it i thought the sun had burst through, and poetry had just been invented and abolished at the same time. i don't know what it will do to you.

"And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;

Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts
And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,
And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!

I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.
Lighting up long violet coagulations,
Like the performers in very-antique dramas
Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!

I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows
The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
The circulation of undreamed-of saps,
And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!"

-excerpt from "the drunken boat" by arthur rimbaud.

wouldn't it be nice

freres.

san francisco buses et avec la balon aussi.

martin luther king, jr. day parade. downtown los angeles.

bullets

. phone messages
. quirks
. suRprise
. dash, and
. gems
. "jagadamba"
. flash bam!

--waiting for lefty
--caucasian chalk circle
--frogs
--this other one

la boulange journal

oh how we love the tenderloin, so few of us and far between. smoking help me think. brilliant and so many ideas from the smoke that's lifting that never gets written down and i've been saying to myself i love him and saying to other people too. funny how other people will know i love him before he does. i need my lauren. i need my shawn. i need my busse.

middle-aged men behind me talk of the glories of great coffee, none of which i've drank since paris and no lattes since april. poor man's drip coffee cream and sugar. sustains me and my pocket. coffee and cigarettes a close second to wine and. & i just remembered to write to a friend who is far away. shaking too much caffeine not enough food maybe i'll drift to chinatown market for oranges. sweet and sticky and smelly. rose pistola. caffe roma. il triangolo. we're in little italy.