To Rozanne
All afternoon the tropical balloons of aroma rose from my head. I don't usually like to go very much, but today I was more or less at ease, writing poems in my head, reading Dionisio Martínez, and chatting with you more than usual. Neither of us likes to drive on ice, and we both sort of guzzle expresso. Your oldest girl’s an English whiz. You rotated my chair beneath the hot little lights, but took my glasses thankfully off. All I could see in the mirror was a fuzzy blob in a cape, enveloped in foetid smell and sting, followed by coconut balm and mist of miraculous fruits. When I reminded you where I work, you didn't even say, like most, "oh no, I'd better watch my grammar."
I could give a fuck-all about your grammar, ok, and I feel like a weirdo basically
anywhere I go. By the way, it's did, not done, and no e-d, or just e-d minus
done or did. But never mind. Do you get sick of all these heads? What's it
like to hold them in your hands—empty, buzzing, aching, stoned and would-be
wise? You could drown us or stab us, if you wanted. You could make us laughing
stocks for weeks. At the very least, you could take a little off an ear. You
have no idea the power you done aquired at Joseph's
Nichols © 2003
Draft posted for temporary viewing.