Sunday, May 6, 2012

Text Messages to Steven

Prospect Park hates itself in spring. Change is pain. This is cliche. Hi.

Dark roast beans are bitter, not stronger. I didn't know that.

The laughter of drug dealers echoes our stairwell. A gun was pulled last week. Not fired though. I don't really want to hate anyone.

You know Jack Gilbert's "Meniscus: Or How the Heart Must Not Be Too Much Questioned". I wish I wrote that.

In my head subway cars rattle, Prospect Park congas conga, neighbors scream, radiators hiss, and Halal street carts crowd out Oklahoma: native stone, blooming redbuds, church pews, clotheslines, thunderstorms. Can you still smell New Orleans streets?

I romanticized the Beats. They romanticized Rimbaud. But I don't like drugs or squalor. Silly.

I'm not sending these texts to you. Just posting them on my blog.


  1. I really like your style. Lived in Park Slope for a time. You bring it all back.

  2. Thanks, Brian. And thanks for stopping by.

  3. wonderful and so funny.

    the other one that details your minute by minute experience of not knowing what to write is also so funny.

    thank you for being here.

    also i love the cartwheels. a lot.