In case of fleas, shave off all body hair.

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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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4/30

The red lights of the walkway send messages across the wrinkled bedsheet river. A morse code of night secrets. Texas summer sits so heavy and still, like being held in the mouth of a stranger. It is warm enough to swim, quiet enough to whisper, late enough for reckless. You spelled w-a-n-t with the headlights off, your manners holding space between. My mouth grew restless, my teeth grew arms and legs, went looking for diamonds and pearls. The river didn't notice, continued downstream in silence, carried the memory of being licked by the lights.
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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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