I went knocking
on someone else's poem
to find some way to tell you
other than my own, how I hold July
for you, how I dream of lifting your heart
from anything that feels too much
like summer, and placing the seed of it
in cool rain, alongside the flame
of a great Laurel tree. I never trusted the sun,
the pressure its light puts on us
to smile despite its formidable heat.
Then again, I have always resisted
being me.

con = together

fusion = merging

confusion = merging together

merging together = resolving difference

resolving difference = accepting

accepting = willing to live

or die as needed

clarity emanates from confusion
just as calm follows the storm

humanity disassembles nature
difference is our business

blurring distinction creates confusion
indistinction provokes human anxiety

splendor arises from confusion
fearful things are most rewarding

this is natural

You will experience a slow-down of service
Diminished impulse to open your mouth
Or shoot off e-mail

Confidence will be interrupted
And emotions dulled

But periodic guilt is predicted
Along with recurring flashbacks of mortification

Drinking will increase

Normal service is expected to return within 100 days
Thank you for your patience

Yes I'll sit down with myself for hours
and swallow kvass and count the hairs
and lines and words that drip across my chin.
I'll stand and shake my fist and drop my glass,
dance and kick with one eye closed
and shout against the darkness.
I'll go to court and prosecute the world.
I've been hearing Edith Piaf cry and roll
her tongue around the letter r again.
I've been reading Pound and Chekhov.
Every day I wake and watch
the orange morning bump and glow.
It's always cold out there and yesterday it snowed.
I'll wear black socks and rainy overcoats.
I'll feast on sound and bread and stones.
I'll get myself right down to the river
and let my white beard grow.

The moment
Tangible in the circumference of its absence—

(a pause)

Suddenly

The rush of anything

Sea grass
Sand, sea

(another long pause)

Et cetera

——

You are (spoken lightly)

Whatever seems sudden
(a pause)—

Your entrances

Become this,

that, or anything,

(Which is what matters)

Anything.

——

Joy of thought,
cheap as cotton candy,

crystal web,
tied to its own sweetness.

——
Hole (a pause)
(the sea) these a
(you)
    Whole-
ness

——

Quality of what follows

(another pause)

Anything in the gaps
Which is the sea rising

From nowhere (un-paused)

Into the nothing that cannot be.

Think of it

And it happens.

——

Infinite regression.
You (a pause) looking at you
Looking, et cetera.

What comes out of this
Is it then (speak this with a smile);

Over stretch of sand (a pause)
Tidal rise (almost inaudible)

Shells (adopt an attitude of reverie)
filled with sea
Really, as always,

The whorl of (any way you want it)
Your ear.

——
There is nothing behind this (honestly)
Some things are easier to see
Than others. The event of a tangle of rockweed,
Involution in equal involution,
Same as you, the event of the sea.

——
No matter

But the same

(a pause in which you breath loudly)

Degrees of motion,

The light of your temperature.

——

What is there
But gaps,

The hole of you

From which you come

As hole, to become (a pause, even in speech)...
Et cetera?

——

The ocean around me,
Against what might be my blood,

Then, suddenly, a pause,
And you suddenly here.

I paused to stare at White Squares,
a Krasner painting from 1948,
wondering what type of work
her husband had been producing at the time.

Two of Pollock's paintings
hung on the opposing walls,
neither from '48,
and neither
(in my humble opinion)
nearly as interesting as the Krasner before me.

As I looked at the paintings,
a young couple entered the space.
The woman tapped the placard
describing Krasner's painting and said,
"She was married to Willem de Kooning."

"What was that?"
her companion asked.

"Lee Krasner," she repeated,
"she was married to Willem de Kooning."

"Oh," he said, nodding his head.

I thought about correcting her,
but instead continued on
to the Edward Hopper collection
in the next room,
wondering if perhaps
I should have turned back.

I'm shocked to find you in the bed and not her.

Leaning over the toilet
paralyzed with depression
I recall that it's widely accepted in Hollywood
that's she's not only a brilliant actress
but one of the most fun women in the world.

You know, I'm sick of your problems.
Even in South Beach or the Riviera
you'd give me a headache, I'm sure.

Stop laughing,
you know I'm not going anywhere.
I'd turn her into you within six months,
and ruin the fucking movies for everyone.