We Refuse Science or Logic or Sleep

Instead we fumble through broken sentences, through gasps and tears and are unable to draw even a single conclusion. We are not lost. We are not found. We are floating through space and we are not connecting with anything solid, anymore. Like Whitman, I know these filaments will connect somewhere, somehow. There is not much left to do.

Someone Take Me To Massachusetts

There are still places, right, where children wear short pants and people tend to their flowerboxes?

My life can be marked with immersions in poetry. 10 was Dickinson; 12 was Plath; 13 was Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, DiPrima and there were others before these bay-dwellers and their pep talks about geese, femininity, freedom and fucking. I feel like I could show up on their doorsteps, hard-sided suitcase in hand and collapse into their hammocks and after they've restored my faith in things, generally, we could retire to some delicious pizza parlor where I would marvel at the way the wall of bottles gleaming in the sun (that's how they decorate those, right?).