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.


4 comments:

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

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

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  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.

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