recycling Cambridge

Jache called me yesterday from Allen Ginsberg's grave and left me a message, reading me the epitaph and wishing me a pleasant day. but this is beside the point.

the point is that this time last year, i was still oblivious to the imminent perils of border crossing bus stops, and:

(this redundancy,
repetition,
recyling
of life

into form
into life
into art
into life
into form

brings
closer my
understanding
the beauty of karma)

by the time my Mass Ave reunion arrived two days later it was gone, and so...

Cambridge is like... sparring with sparrows over scones as the girls from Radcliffe walk by, thinking about the ones that could have been the one and meeting comrades last seen eight years ago, day after Christmas, talking about miscarriage and apologies, the sea sickness of conference rooms missing horizontal reference.

Cambridge is like... fighting robots, designing computer chips in the key of E flat, and his sister still living at home, spaying cats eighty hours a week between bouts of drunkenness.

Cambridge is like... pink-haired sex ads perused by lesbians on trains, and midget junkies stranded by boyfriends, asking for a dollar.

Cambridge is like... the nostalgia of Harvard Square in December and the wistful wisdom of intuition, knowing it was too soon to say, too late to stay, the futility and frustration watching friends fall apart and post-parade confessions of wall-eyed strangers.