4.07 / July 2009


She practices stumbling, crashing kites,
Spills ice cream cones, and
Peels oranges with hooks.

She decides that every day she is going on
A first date, so wears lipstick.

Reapplies lipstick, to her now
Perpetual-red lips,
Leaves conversations
To “freshen up,”
And sticks toilet paper to her soles.

Bone me like a fish,
She says, beckoning,
At the end of the night,
In the mouth of her doorway.

Dear Mister Smythe,

I write about the
windsor knot, which is the
appearance maker I gathered
and looped and pulled before
our dance, because in the
sparkling hall I realized how
unimportant a show can be
for the average young man,
but how over the top and
ready for anything: battle,
foreplay, shots at the bar, he
could appear if he just
learned to tie his shoes or fly
a kite with a proper rope. A
young man’s success could
never be easier. I have taken
to adventures of scandalous
proportion and more knot
tying- the windsor is all I can
manage before I sail, doing
me no good on the sea, in the
air, or below ground, because
who needs a necktie when
what one really needs is a
new set of legs and wings and
funeral clothes, which ease us
down onto the concrete, the
hard, the scarce and wait for
us to catch up to the
overwhelming sensation of
falling, but it appears I’m
back to affirming the
necessity of the windsor knot,
and maybe, there should be

Many happy returns,

4.07 / July 2009