Saturday, September 20, 2008

On the Back on a Szechuan Eggplant Recipe from Vegetarian Times, 1994 or so

(it was not quite a poem, still is not)

I live in this city and never stop moving except to write things down. I live in tis city & it’s making my head hurt today or maybe it’s just the season. I feel stoned & anxious but I don’t miss anybody. I don’t. Separate conversations. I live in this city and the red leaves a good luck. The sirens don’t surprise me. I wanted my head to be cleaned by the wind. I want all change to be for the better. I live in this city & I feel less safe than usual, as if it were a sign of age. I live in this city and the kid at the next table is just learning what a street person is; she has never seen one before. Why doesn’t he get an apartment? Doesn’t he sometimes sleep in a store/indoors? It is time to go home. No one is (cut off) don’t say hello to the people I actually recognize. Having this choice = home.

Coin in the cup. Belly up

at the bar.

What time is it.

Conversation, Celia.