Elegy for Connor (poem) (mine).

Two Years Later

 

I told a story about you the other day. It was more beautiful

not to say you were dead. I spoke your name as if new tales

of you were still developing, as if you’d undergone more

haircuts, more nights, more cups of coffee. You don’t speak

to any of us anymore; you’ve turned boys I knew into men

with your photograph on the wall. Two years later, you’re still

the best-looking person in the room full of faces I’ll never see

again, though the image of your arm slung around  the neck

of a friend, the other hand  holding a drink or drumming on

the nearest table, is as near as breath to the body, even nearer.

 

 

I dreamt of Chicago (recap) (mine).

 

I went to Chicago last weekend, or at least I think I did. I got a cold pretty soon after arriving and as the days went on I got foggier and foggier. It felt like I was peering out of two small telescopes from inside my body. And now that I’m back in San Diego, where it’s 75 degrees…the whole thing feels even more like a dream. A dream where

 

I flew on an airplane with writers from San Diego and drank bloody Marys

then ate a pizza so thick it reminded me why they’re called pizza pies

then got picked up outside the pizza restaurant by Eric Suffoletto in a blue Lexus

and we drove to a bar with thick curtains attached to the ten-foot ceilings and drank cocktails fit for a princess at a picnic

and afterwards we drove through a scene from “The Dark Night”

then Katie Conway arrived and we ate green curry with scallops and bought tights and tissues at CVS

and I heard Nikki Giovanni talk in a big room with chandeliers and she reminded me about surrounding myself only with people who love me

and there were a lot of hip people selling books with confusing poems inside

and I ate French fries with brie and mushrooms on top

and it was my birthday

and everyone was calling me but I couldn’t talk

and Ilya Kaminsky sang happy birthday to me and it was a hilarious treasure

and I rode the el and took a taxi cab and wore a turtleneck and various hats

and named Katie’s boyfriend “the maestro of love” and drank wine in the hotel room

and it was flurrying and freezing and the wind was coming from every direction

and I met the woman who wrote the poem about herpes in the Beloit Poetry Journal and I told her she was doing an important thing for the world

and I bought books and journals or took them off tables

and Kate Gale was there and we sat in taupe armchairs and talked and she said hello to a dozen famous people whose names I knew but not the faces

and there was a secret present from Misha snuck into my bag

and on the train it was snowing and Dean was hungover and Jen had so many bags she looked like a vagabond Amazon with fancy belts

and the guy at security took my lotion away

and outside the airport San Diego was hot and over-bright as if lit by bulbs stolen from the rest of the country and there’s Misha in our car waving like he does with one hand raised up, not moving, just raised in hello

 

***

My Saturday (song) & next Saturday (I’m reading!).

 

Listening to Fleet Foxes, working hard all day on readings & poems & projects so that when Sam & Caity arrive on Tuesday I will do nothing but be with them.

 

 

Oh and San Diegans–I’m reading next Saturday night at a gallery called Agitprop, at 7pm. It’s not happening in my yard and it’s not related to SDSU–it’s like, a real reading! Please come if you live here. I’ll be selling mini chapbooks (one of the aforementioned projects getting finished today in preparation for my visitors).

 

(And so much thanks to Lorraine for inviting me to read. Makes me feel like a real poet.)

 

New Year’s Eve Brunch Sonnet (#5) (mine).

 

Max is also a Pisces

He hands me the astrology book while reading my “Lovepoem” out loud

My photograph is on the refrigerator

This is my first time at their apartment and my photograph is on the wall

At midnight a blonde girl lights my sparkler after two minutes of matches

Sam in her black turtleneck with a small cup of water and grooving

Kathryn dancing with her hair

Mallory on the couch getting the scoop

In Andrew’s room the bed is stripped

Max makes coffee and the room is mugged

No taxis in all of Brooklyn, no taxis in all of New York

After 4am I’m not especially human

Math and sleep are both about the numbers

This year, again, is all about the words

 

 

poem inspired by the photograph (mine).

girl you have way too many

jackets & too many of those

 

girly bows as headgear but rest

assured i’ll hold a broken down

 

umbrella over us as our hairs

grow big & frazzled and the spittle

 

of the rain delivered on the wind

strums our faces like a set of bitten

 

teenage fingernails touching

grandpa’s heirloom fiddle