How subliminally selfish.
You concluded your purpose
with such dainty handling,
it was clear I had to be the one to put it in writing
Fucked would be my word
Enjoy your university, sir.
I’m high anyway
Language is the finest vo-cab-er-net
#IThoughtWeMet
This pen is not for sale
It’s too active
Going places, and quickly
This pen is not replaceable
It’s gilded in experience
This pen only arrives as it will some of the time
Intermittently
Reluctantly obliged occasionally, only briefly
Unavailable for meetings
Won’t respond to All
Vincent was alone in his study. A lamp hung in the corner, casting light onto the floorboards. It was raining.
His paper-strewn desk, stoic and heavy in the cold room, caught only a glimpse of the lamp’s glow. Vincent paced restlessly. The night had grown so long already and he had come up with nothing. He scratched his head and then his neck, as though to jolt some idea to life. He poured wine, his hand shaking so much that he spilled large drops onto his serving tray.
There hadn’t been cowboys in The Valley since the early nineteen eighties, but they were re-emerging. At shopping malls stocked with shoe stores, cell phone kiosks, jewelry retailers, and airbrush photography studios, you could find them. Even though it had been forty years since their boots clicked against the cold, shiny floors, the cowboys were comfortable because the shops hadn’t changed much. And shoppers still had fancy hair, big earrings, and credit cards just like in 1983. On any given day in 2017, there would be a cowboy leaning up against the wall of an ice cream vendor or with his arms propped up on a corn dog stand. It was home.
“Will you be there? It would be so incredible if you could come!” I won’t be there. “I’ve missed seeing you, your smile. This will be so special, I really hope you can make it.” I cannot.
It is a bridal shower for Emily, a poet I know. She’s a better poet than I am and so I dislike her. Her poems have more texture, she talks about tendons and tangible pain and it infuriates me. I buy her a gift. I wrap it myself. And then I put it in my bookcase and stay home and never call. I just never show up for the party of four female poets to celebrate Emily’s engagement.
And then she gets married in Oregon at a farm with ribboned bouquets and she’s exquisite.
And I keep the gift, the book I bought for her.
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