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the taste of coffee,
black,
on the morning
of the first snow
in November.

the smell of rain
at midnight,
cool,
on the last day
of spring.

the pain of leaving
a woman you love,
beautiful,
as you say goodbye.

waiting to drown

two nights ago i dreamed i was on an ocean liner. i walked the decks, wearing a life preserver, and eventually found myself at the rear of the boat looking out over the edge at the sea below. i stepped up onto the railing and jumped.

i felt the cold rush of water pass my ears and, before the life preserver could pull me back to the surface, i pulled it up across my shoulders and over my head. it sat floating next to me while i calmly waited to drown. but this is beside the point.

the point is that the dreams are (slowly) beginning to return, and i still hold hope that they might somehow serve to relive this strain i am under.

"what's going on?"

good question.

i drove up to a stop light on my lunch break and heard what sounded like the voices that open "What's Going On?" before the sax comes in. i turned to my left and looked into the car beside me, a gray Mercury sedan, full of young men talking and laughing.

one of them was casually holding a gun.

i slowly turned my head back and waited for the light to turn. i went to the park and ate my sushi. i watched the birds circle overhead, thinking of Marvin.

"brother, brother..."

"Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream..."

i have not remembered (well) my dreams in many weeks, and i cannot help but sense there is some meaning in their absence. the past few nights have seen their slow return, and i wait bated and breathless for this confusion to clear. this morning i dreamed for hours a single line:

the use of consextualization and rack focus to turn the object into...

(six) toeing the line

i went to work last night and a friend of mine told me her neighbor had deposited a polydactyl cat. this particular (beautiful) genetic aberration has 22 and a fetching feline tuxedo. but this is beside the point.

the point is that i would love to love this cat, and my living situation is about to change, but i'm not sure about the timing. timing seems to be so much of everything these days (it always is) and last night i called Mardou as i walked home from work. her grandma had died, and she had spent a frigid, miserable weekend in the Midwest. she said:

"i'm going to be in Florida this weekend."
- why?
"i'm a bridesmaid; it's my second job."
- oh...

and so we made plans (perhaps) to have chutney for breakfast Monday morning after she finishing holding court on Sunday night. one would think this is beside the point, but it's not, because:

Mardou is the one who taught me timing, two summers ago when it seemed as though the sky was sliced open and dumped stars on the earth below.

one last tries

Jache came over yesterday to discuss, with me, my confusion. he made a chart with words on it like the following: "poet, artist, yogi." he spoke of parallel lines, Ginsberg and bodhisattva. he told me that sometimes you have to create "one last try"

...but sometimes the universe creates it for you.

the things not read on misty Sunday mornings

...