Opinions come in rows. Faces I know. Lined up in comic strip. Noir. I wish someone would sketch my eyebrows thicker. And give me more thoughtful bubbles.
I prefer seasons. The rain is beating us. For no reason. It doesn’t matter that we were good this year. It doesn’t matter that we were right. Or that our analysis was sound. The rain will beat us anyway.
The crow uses bits of my argument for a nest.
Could you teach me how to speak in rows? Could you show me how to hook one idea to the next so they line up like train cars all headed in the same direction? To Avignon.
I smoked my last cigarette at the Gare de Lyon. Without reason.
I might be happy with a wig. The squirrel seems happy with the nut.
xtended version of a life or two or more
We believed in our generation
dreams held close to our chest
cardigans the colour of rust or mustard
buttons that didn’t line up, didn’t matter at the end of the night, bed
floor, chair, anywhere tossed aside
swallowed year by year
by pool halls, by fear.
The driver does not want to take me across the Bay Bridge tonight
he wants to say no, tries to say no, squirms in his seat
my hand on the door, I’m ready to get out, doubt
is what we hold on our tongue
but he doesn’t say no, he says yes, cursing, but yes
cursing the bridge, the fare zones, city behind
changed, he says, full of money, he says
he leans into the wheel shrugging the habit of no
and with the volume low, spits rhymes to records
everything could fall into the Hayward Fault at any moment, he says.