Written on the back of a paper plate.
Frank, Stop Staring Please
After drinks, Frank O’Hara starts to look kind of creepy–
staring from the cover of a book of collected poetry, in
black-and-white and green-and-black frowning.
Especially when seated on the shelf next to the toilet
Frank, looking, why?
You want more privacy when you are drunk.
I stayed in Boston! I will write on the backs of paper plates!
I will write at a cold iron coffee table at Cardullo’s
in Harvard Square, I will make them famous
I will start the Boston School
And all my friends will go to the school.
Let’s high-five, let’s move to New York. Let’s move to Brooklyn.
Let’s not, let’s stay, screw Brooklyn, pastrami sandwich.
Just do not stare, master poet.
Let me sit in decided peace.
The first in a while. I appreciate feedback!
Breakfast In Love
Sipping a small cup of coffee (small thank you)
,little espresso chocolate crumbs cleared away under his spot,
the spot where his second cup goes, the one that will give him
a tummy ache, the king of motherfuck picks up snotty-rags,
listens to some accordion music, some melancholy piano,
a bicycle gearbox ratcheting. He thinks about love.
He thinks about the kitchen table. He thinks to himself,
you are a little prince.
You are a small man,
but you are in love.”
He finishes his coffee. He eats a chocolate.
He cleans the kitchen table. He feels bigger.
My walking speed is inversely proportional to the volume of tea I am carrying.
I might have begun this chapter last week, but this seemed a more appropriate time. I went out–really went out, to where the party was–two nights ago, and I spent most of yesterday in my room recovering. I realized that I’m developing a routine. Three packets of sugar in my tea. Three pounds per meal on my dining card. Three shirts per laundry load. Go into the hallway when wireless reception drops. Stall on homework by reading comics. Stall on blogging by eating chocolate. Stall on sleep by blogging and playing with Photoshop. Pinch pennies. Save up for trips. Read in the bathroom. Open the windows at night. Every habit, whether brought from home or newly formed, is a way to feel like I have a starting point.
I even like my bed now that we have all those extra comforters. My roommate and I are slowly rebuilding our immune systems’ strength–at different rates, but it’s happening. He had to sleep on an iron mattress much longer than I did.
And good god, I almost forgot. Lord help me, I spent three-hundred and fifteen pounds yesterday. One-ninety on the awesome pony trekking trip in November, and another one-twenty five on the weekend trip to Edinburgh. It’s okay, though. I’ve come to accept the parting of money (no heart attacks here–you can’t take it with you). And the budget still stands. Besides how can I put a price on riding for two whole days in the beautiful Welsh countryside of my ancestors?
Some of my readers have expressed an interest in my studies. Well: in Writers In Exile, we read Joyce, and now we’re reading horny old D. H. Lawrence. In Art History, I fall frequently fall asleep and my professor calls me out on it. In Roman Britain, I sometimes fall asleep and mostly take notes about the Romans’ conquest of Britannia. In Drawing class, I sketch big round scribbly sketches of statues in museums. And in Writing Fiction, I read and write. A lot. Lots of notes in the journal, every day, lots of procrastination on the actual assignments, lots of reading on how to go about it when I do write.
THERE YOU GO MOM
Most study abroad students are off to Leeds Castle and Canterbury today, to look at the castle, hang out and watch some dudes joust. I am on my bed looking up Irish members of the CouchSurfing network.
Time to make a cup of tea, sit down at my desk, and get to the work of writing!