Poem of things I want to do tonight (mine).

 

Tonight I just wanna

 

drink sarsparilla, cut tomatoes and watch their seeds drool out, paint my toenails raspberry, eat four pieces of bacon, roll down a hill of grass, drink an olive-juicy cocktail, hang out with Maya Rudolph at a bowling alley, cram onto a single bed with all my college friends and yell stories over each others’ stories, finish that friendship bracelet I started, read Sartre, carve my own stamp design into rubber, make a dozen beeswax tapers, soak my feet in hot eucalyptus water, lie in a room covered in fresh mulch and ducklings, talk on a landline with a coiled cord, stay in a hotel with really soft robes, get a fancy haircut, race a friend on parallel moving sidewalks, watch “Prime” with my sissy, grill peaches, drink whiskey in the thunder, wrap gemstones in gold wire, type up poems on the street and sell them for a dollar, bake chocolate croissants with Meryl Streep, or whittle a piece of cedar into a breakfast spoon.

 

 

Belated brunch sonnet #7 (mine).

 

I want to walk around Hastings but nobody lives here

anymore. Pretty soon I won’t either. My home will be

some yellow morning in a place with seasons, a couple

of strips of bacon still scenting the rooms near the kitchen.

Tomorrow I’ll show friends the spots on my tour of Hastings:

the tennis courts, the entrance to the woods, the back door

of the bar where you can smoke anything, the long lightless

road along Reynolds Field. I haven’t lived here for years,

proved by today when I tried to mail my letter in two mailboxes

no longer in service, painted brown but still standing, handled

mouths glued shut. When I come home, the cat relearns me.

I sleep under a mountain of blankets. My appetite is misplaced

and I get lost driving simple places. All this not-knowing

is a sort of exhaustion. All these knots have pull.