M and J and the Rusty Tetanus Bicycles
A taste of Tony H. for starters (that was then):
"...It's January, no, it's February, it's Pittsburgh
and I've been so twisted by craving and loneliness and rage,
I feel like curling up on the floor of my room and crying,
"You never loved me anyway, not ever!"
though I'm not sure who I would be talking to..."
"Florida's on fire. Someone set fire to Florida," I said, and then checked the weather report to predict whether Jeremy would use his powers to turn fire into wet wood for my visit.
Hartsfield-Jackson always reminds me of love, but from 30,000 feet to ground everything was gray and misty, reminding me that today Atlanta means lost love. A drop condensed on the window like the single tear of bad poetry, but quickly and with force, several more did the same and then stopped, resembling more of a true thing.
There was an ominous tone to the ugly hum of the smoking lounge with its regularly spaced plastic chairs, filled with rows of sad, coughing smokers. But in the stinking haze, everyone was together, a spectacle. Little bites of death make fast friends, and the silent conversation turned back to love, which it turned out I had not lost, nor had he. Only something in the act and something in between had faded like smoke into fog, and no one, no matter how much sneezing and hand-waving he attempted, could pick it apart. Anyway, today is about Tallahassee, not Atlanta.
And this is no time for hand-waving about some sort-of-lost love. The plane is leaving in 15 minutes and I've yet to muster up a white horse. The narcissism of the idea that everything that happened, happened TO ME so I might better serve that small sector of humanity that I like, (for what is a hero without a cape,) is powerful and a little intoxicating. But I am out of practice, more bored than sad, more angry than bored, and generally more complacent than anything about the new, ever-changing order of things. So I fall back on old habits instead.
Facts:
There's a film festival in Tallahassee this weekend, and an air show - pangs!
Unless, of course, they've all caught fire.
MAN CARRYING SOFA
Whatever happened to Cindy Morrison, that nice young lesbian?
I heard she moved to the city and got serious.
Traded in her work boots for high heels and a power suit.
Got a health-care plan and an attorney girlfriend.
Myself, I don't want to change.
It's January and I'm still dating my checks November.
I don't want to step through the doorway of the year.
I'm afraid of something falling off behind me.
I'm afraid my own past will start forgetting me.
Now the sunsets are like cranberry sauce
poured over the yellow hills, and yes,
that beauty so strong it hurts --
it hurts because it isn't personal.
But we look anyway, we sit upon our stoops
and stare, -- fierce,
like we were tossing down a shot of vodka, straight,
and afterwards, we feel purified and sad and rather Russian.
When David was in town last week,
I made a big show to him of how unhappy I was
because I wanted him to go back and tell Susan
that I was suffering without her --
but then he left and I discovered
I really was miserable
-- which made me feel better about myself --
because, after all, I don't want to go through time untouched.
What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of ants and sandwich wrappers,
of X-rated sunsets and drive-through funerals.
And this particular complex pain inside your chest;
this damaged longing
like a heavy piece of furniture inside you;
you carry it, it burdens you, it drags you down --
then you stop, and rest on top of it.
Discuss:
Epiphanies in airport side rooms. This, if it is one, is not the first.
"...It's January, no, it's February, it's Pittsburgh
and I've been so twisted by craving and loneliness and rage,
I feel like curling up on the floor of my room and crying,
"You never loved me anyway, not ever!"
though I'm not sure who I would be talking to..."
"Florida's on fire. Someone set fire to Florida," I said, and then checked the weather report to predict whether Jeremy would use his powers to turn fire into wet wood for my visit.
Hartsfield-Jackson always reminds me of love, but from 30,000 feet to ground everything was gray and misty, reminding me that today Atlanta means lost love. A drop condensed on the window like the single tear of bad poetry, but quickly and with force, several more did the same and then stopped, resembling more of a true thing.
There was an ominous tone to the ugly hum of the smoking lounge with its regularly spaced plastic chairs, filled with rows of sad, coughing smokers. But in the stinking haze, everyone was together, a spectacle. Little bites of death make fast friends, and the silent conversation turned back to love, which it turned out I had not lost, nor had he. Only something in the act and something in between had faded like smoke into fog, and no one, no matter how much sneezing and hand-waving he attempted, could pick it apart. Anyway, today is about Tallahassee, not Atlanta.
And this is no time for hand-waving about some sort-of-lost love. The plane is leaving in 15 minutes and I've yet to muster up a white horse. The narcissism of the idea that everything that happened, happened TO ME so I might better serve that small sector of humanity that I like, (for what is a hero without a cape,) is powerful and a little intoxicating. But I am out of practice, more bored than sad, more angry than bored, and generally more complacent than anything about the new, ever-changing order of things. So I fall back on old habits instead.
Facts:
There's a film festival in Tallahassee this weekend, and an air show - pangs!
Unless, of course, they've all caught fire.
MAN CARRYING SOFA
Whatever happened to Cindy Morrison, that nice young lesbian?
I heard she moved to the city and got serious.
Traded in her work boots for high heels and a power suit.
Got a health-care plan and an attorney girlfriend.
Myself, I don't want to change.
It's January and I'm still dating my checks November.
I don't want to step through the doorway of the year.
I'm afraid of something falling off behind me.
I'm afraid my own past will start forgetting me.
Now the sunsets are like cranberry sauce
poured over the yellow hills, and yes,
that beauty so strong it hurts --
it hurts because it isn't personal.
But we look anyway, we sit upon our stoops
and stare, -- fierce,
like we were tossing down a shot of vodka, straight,
and afterwards, we feel purified and sad and rather Russian.
When David was in town last week,
I made a big show to him of how unhappy I was
because I wanted him to go back and tell Susan
that I was suffering without her --
but then he left and I discovered
I really was miserable
-- which made me feel better about myself --
because, after all, I don't want to go through time untouched.
What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of ants and sandwich wrappers,
of X-rated sunsets and drive-through funerals.
And this particular complex pain inside your chest;
this damaged longing
like a heavy piece of furniture inside you;
you carry it, it burdens you, it drags you down --
then you stop, and rest on top of it.
Discuss:
Epiphanies in airport side rooms. This, if it is one, is not the first.