In case of fleas, shave off all body hair.

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15/30

15/30 Your Name Means Late-Summer or Warlike Girl, you make me want to say girl in that way where the rrrrrr ’s roll out forever and the i becomes a u . Yeah. That’s right. And you make me want to roll up the bottom of my jeans, shove collected countries in the back pockets and collected men between my thighs. Stop collecting dreams. Girl, you make me want to rock climb—cover myself in that fine chalk powder dust, grunt like I want it, till my hand skin comes off in chunks. And you make me want to eat meat. Fuck chicken and fish. I mean steak. Cooked rare. Make me want to barbecue, corn kernels for floss and watermelon seeds for spitting. You make me want to shower in garden-hoses, drink BudLight around campfires, wear flannel. Want to tan like I was one-sixteenth Indian. Girl, you make me want to get high and ride public transportation with the retarded kids. Or stay up all night driving the screen saver into space. Girl. You make me want to slow. this. shit. down.
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All caught up!

10/30 dreamed again. tonight I dreamed of making muffins and babies. I told you (unexpectedly) that you were the only man I'd ever want to make babies with and you told me I was beautiful every day for two-hundred-sixty-six days. we named our children Sweetbelly and Stickylove and when they were outside, we kept them in fruit trees and when they were inside we kept them in our arms. This is how they never learned the feet/ground rules. Then, when we loved too much, we would have to go check on the tomatoes. dreamed again. we didn't have a dishwasher, so that I could take my time with all those muffins. I smiled and told Sweetbelly to be careful. She had jam on her face and it was scorpion season; so then you wrote poetry about scorpions and jam--about sweet tomatoes and muffins. and when it was late at night I would wake and find you rocking Stickylove and fatherhood carefully in your arms--the way my mom used to find dad. Lost in that rocking chair; and then I would lov...
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Hardwood Floors and Quiet. (For Monica)

Our lives got quiet then. We have finished having the kinds of parties where everyone dances until five in the morning, where the punch bowls get spilt on the floor and by the end people have given up on mixing drinks all together because nobody really does know who that one guy in the suit is and we aren’t sure whose locked themselves up in the downstairs bedroom, but chances are they don’t live here and does anybody know why Jodi is taking her panties off in the stairwell again? And we don’t throw parties, don’t throw much of anything. Don’t need to. Our lives got knit-a-sweater quiet. Cut the corn off the cob kind of quiet. Quiche and Frittata and knowing the difference quiet. We have finished with the lost boys. The ones we fucked to keep them quiet and then sent home before the sun came in the window because we needed our sleep. Done with the recycled boys who took turns being something that was better than nothing between the sheets and when we looked up we laughed because we ...
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