Easter Eggs.
Beer cans.
Princess Di’s diary.
Poop.
Cell phones.
Promises.
Kylie Minogue tickets.
Blood.
Picnic baskets.
Hair.
Paramol.
Pounds.
Teabags.
That one blade of grass that looks like Paul Revere.
Water, more than one kind.
Me.
Footballs.
Hide and Seek.
Crazy Frogs.
Prince Albert.
Coppers.
Mushroom trips.
Piggy-back rides.
A couple of crunks.
Pigeons with stumps.
iPods.
Break-ups.
The sun.
In a hurry or not.
Skinned knees.
HP Sauce.
Used condoms.
Robbers.
Some monuments.
A daughter and her mother chasing each-other around a tree until they both fall down, laughing.
New shoes.
Advice.
Maggots.
Two sitting on a bench, almost touching.
Math teachers.
Someone thinking about Central Park.
A Sunday BBQ with stories about ex-lovers.
A kite, almost off of the ground.
A quarter.
AA members.
Happy Slaps.
Bikes, fast ones and slow.
All kinds of people,
and shit like that.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding
By the time I make my second left, I should be well into the first song. But I usually am not. Mornings used to begin with excitement. Sun, shit, shower, shave, coffee. Now I’m lucky to leave my bed at all. Sure, I still sun, shit, shower, shave and coffee, but I do it all from bed. That’s the thing about Kensington. My arms grow and stretch here like they never have before. It’s no problem for me to reach through the bars on my window to the top of the sky and wave, “Hello. Good morning, Mister Sun.”
He has yet to reply. Maybe his back is turned on me because he’s looking at Uranus. My arms have no trouble reaching mine. And I couldn’t ask for a better shower—it’s a fancy (American usage of this word) one with a long hose coming up from the bath faucet. My crazy arms like to intertwine with it to let the water trickle through the hair and over the tattoos, across the hallway, to room 5A like The California Aqueduct. The bed is wet and so am I. So what. It’s wet outside and so am I. So what. My pocketbook is dry. I’ll shave when I’m wet. If only I could leave this bed. There is a French Press five feet away, but fuck it—I could press my luck and reach to France for the real thing. OK, Italy. Yeah, I’ll do that and see how many European women I can fondle along the way. It’d be fun to reach through that Chunnel thing, but I hear that those trains go really fast and I don’t want to lose these awesome arms.
Out the window, left over the Thames. By the time I make my second left, I will be well into the first song.
He has yet to reply. Maybe his back is turned on me because he’s looking at Uranus. My arms have no trouble reaching mine. And I couldn’t ask for a better shower—it’s a fancy (American usage of this word) one with a long hose coming up from the bath faucet. My crazy arms like to intertwine with it to let the water trickle through the hair and over the tattoos, across the hallway, to room 5A like The California Aqueduct. The bed is wet and so am I. So what. It’s wet outside and so am I. So what. My pocketbook is dry. I’ll shave when I’m wet. If only I could leave this bed. There is a French Press five feet away, but fuck it—I could press my luck and reach to France for the real thing. OK, Italy. Yeah, I’ll do that and see how many European women I can fondle along the way. It’d be fun to reach through that Chunnel thing, but I hear that those trains go really fast and I don’t want to lose these awesome arms.
Out the window, left over the Thames. By the time I make my second left, I will be well into the first song.
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