7:30PM Wednesday Sept 23, 2004

I have not written in at leats three weeks and I’m in a bar on the lower east side going throuhg one of those 5 times a year crises; the one in which I wonder serioulsy if I’ll ever again write anything of note. and then, it dawns on me – what if I haven’t written anything of note yet? and then the winter comes and it’s depressing and I drink a whole lot for no reason and little by little something squeezes itself out of me so that by the time summer comes, I’m sure I’ll be the next significant poetic voice; that I’ll become a canon onto myself; lower east side formalist/punk rock and roll/ neo-funk afro-caribbean form performance poet with subtle hints of neruda all over my shit.

but there’s a hooka in front of me (did I spell that right?) and a brother needs some apple tobacco. it’s all so surreal. tomorrow is mara’s birthday and that’s what mara does – mara does surreal, so she’ll meet me here for a drink and something strange will happen and we’ll giggle our asses off, sure that the low red velvet seats and the sheer curtains are part of the plan that will bring us to the attention (eventually) of every poetic school ever created…

and maybe the man is waiting for deliverance
who knows – he is handsome (he thinks)
and spends his evenings in
eclectia – yes

there is never a good reason
for all the lies he tells
if you ask the people to whom he tells them

from his point of view though…

a bird could fly through this room
right now and make him delirious, happy
and it would verify every thing he thought
of this day

and maybe the man is waiting for a woman
one to whom he’s made love before
but now – just loves
for the idea of all the things she could be
and all the dishes she could throw – at him, of course

(more to come) about to go have some drinks