Diary

Lenny Kravitz Pumps Iron In Leather Pants, Leaves the Internet Agog has been a headline on CNN for a week.

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Mail Table
Do Not Bend or Fold
Alison Miller or Current Resident
DO NOT DISCARD
We’ve Missed You Come Back
Joshua Tree Water District
Joshua Tree Water District
CURRENT OWNER OR RESIDENT
IMPORTANT POLICY INFORMATION and/or
PREMIUM INVOICE PLEASE OPEN IMMEDIATELY
Ms. Ella Barber (from my mother to my daughter, unopened after 14 days)
The Alison B. Miller Trust (??)
Miller, Alison
NEW DISCOVERIES!

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(III) Other things:
Legos on the floor (in bags and loose) (mine)
One dog on the bed, the other missing/gone/downstairs in his bed
The sheets, fucked (ours) and smelling of us (you would say me) 

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(II) The colored pencils are scattered across the desk in a pattern like a palette–Here is proof that I’m an artist, here is proof that I’m in love.

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(I) You breathe into my neck and I don’t know where I should sit what I should do you breathe into my neck and I don’t know if I should wake up or close my eyes forever  I don’t know if I should look up or sleep through this I don’t know what real life is when you leave.

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It very the best of things it was the very worst things CLANG CLANG bang. 

Make fantasies, come naked, and not coming you are not you, have never been, and never will be. You are my creation, my guilty winnings.

The sun sets and I don’t see it. The West Coast falls into the ocean. Have you ever eaten popcorn while you watch TV have you ever popped your own corn and if so, were you drinking wine out of a box at the time had you graduated? Had you begun to see that as a graduation and who was your alma mater? Don’t say Bukowski, I dare you to not say Bukowski. Horse races, bullfights and striped bathing suits by the sea oh, we can go to France, to California, Mexico, and back again we can die in Florida we can die in LA we can pretend like we’ve found it, Florida, Italy, Spain, but how often do we die where we meant to (Montana?) how often do our cats eat our faces when we do, empty bags of kibble faces full of meat

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Two dogs uncomfortable on poems spit out by a printer  (uncomfortable) of another age, this age, but fast forward, some, to now. And the books at their ears, The Art of Noticing and Becoming Kerouac, “How desperate you’ve become,” the dogs would say if they could morph into a Instagram reel where animals press colored buttons, call you a bitch. I printed the poems on which the dogs are uncomfortably sleep on the back of a friend’s abandoned novel and some accidental printer eruption I suffered years ago “Let me be worth it,” I say, and my dogs say “Eh.” 

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Remember handbells? White gloves, Rob‘s handprints on the part of the church no one accesses anymore, remember a boy’s fingers inside me under the holly tree? What was a lock-in anyway? His mom taught Sunday school before she competed on Wheel of Fortune, before she died and he wasn’t mentioned in her obituary. Rob died in a corner they say, and that’s all I heard about that, heard it in my first ex-husband‘s basement during a game of Win Lose or Draw. His dad the minister had switched churches by then remember his mom and the controversial lesbian youth counselor leading us through Chicago where we toured churches, me with forest green hair, and the one new one non-parishioner who had a Pearl Jam shirt for every day of the week fingered me from the backseat and I wiped his sand with a little mermaid tissue, the air-conditioning broken, the neatly printed index card that said SORRY, FRIENDS.

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The second half of my bed is empty but it’s just the second half. Reminds me of church when the pews’ red cushions weren’t full, but that didn’t make them any more wanting, content to absorb the singing, skinny candles dripping wax onto children’s fingers despite the protective cones, it was the most dangerous part of Christmas then.