3.28.2013

3.27.2013

3.23.2013



Sent from my iPad


Sent from my iPad


Sent from my iPad

3.13.2013

3.12.2013

3.06.2013

assaulted by a polish bum
in the laundromat
so
i was walked home
by the old hispanic
bodega man
and
he doesn't care.

boner parade wins.
trivia
but
throws away my
birdman
and i am left with
texts that make

my stomach ache
and
my heart burn
and

i know
exactly
where i don't want to be.

not even a polka dot dress
or a stroll through a
sunny park
can stop your legs
from shaking
and
whatifs and someones
from
"I am still here"

mostly.

i wear
gold hearts.

and dream about you
every night.

3.04.2013

I have to stay alive until 2061.  I promised him.  I promised myself.  I'll be 81 and he'll be older, but not by much.  For now, we'll bury a time capsule with memories of our youth.  In Prospect Park.  And make a pact to marry if we are alone and lonely octogenarians.  Canoli in Carrol Gardens, to celebrate.  Life.  Love.  Nearly 50 years of making sure that we're alive. Comets.

We'll sell the movie rights, and put the profits in a trust to give to animal rescue organizations.  November's Ison, 2061's Halley's.  And in two weeks he'll go to Montreal and I'll go to Paris.  Until then we'll practice our French, but only learn to say "I am a stupid American, give me beer."  Incorrectly out of laziness. 

This kale salad needs beets.  One earplug in my pocket and one finger in my ear.  He found the new Devendra album on vinyl and I am drinking seltzer out of a mason jar and freezing my forearms and ankles with poor wardrobe decisions.

It's only 1pm.  I am not your hombre.  You are not my mademoiselle.