curated by Adam Fitzgerald

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Day Book


In the pouch of pens is the tooth brush amber in the plastic wrap but
won't write. I pull out the blue one creamy and cold. At are
newspapers and a clear cup with cubes is in the magazine net.
"Shouldn't they have cleaned that out for me? He is gone a long
time and he will bring something back. "It's bad to love tightly."
My feet. "Your shoes are so retro." Then was then he brought me
aspirin. It was for the fever I made not to work. He's putting a
napkin in my lap pulling my tray down.


After dinner there might be something I want to write while you
separate suits. A new deck. You teach me Cheat. The back of the
cards is a photo of a field and track, train and white Amtrack
arrow in the corner. Your legs cross. "Don't you want to put
your legs across me?" "I do but let me get my coat." From
the Hook of Holland to Amsterdam they check tickets. From here to D.C.
Won't he be surprised. All the times i made plans to visit and here
comes the woman whose son must be blond think-skinned cold nose
as his feet are sweating in ski boots. Your foot folds a magazine. I
lick my lips.


I call him Varsity. I write his name in orange. I rub his belly
under striped sweater. Everything is going so well for him. He
drops his pants and I embrace him trying in the poem to get away
from this new stanza. It was meant to be a stanza of his name to
me. If I take care of myself forever what will you give to me?


It is seven o'clock there is a small piece of cellophane on your
white sock. It's making my dick hard. We've stopped somewhere. I
am reminded by men's voices that we have a new vice-president
and a new president.


There is no writing in front of T.V. on the first morning in D.C.
I will sit at the table on the patio under that tree wearing all
the ivy, naked branches up from its dress and later cross out
everything I write under tree. But the air feels right the color
blue over Watergate building. None of it hits the paper well but
the coffee hit my palate o.k. To complete this scene of me: cold
flowers kind sunny day in D.C.


what am I feeling
he said to sit in the last/back car
that it was cruisy
but all the wrong people are in this car
maybe this is the front
lights go out all train noise stops
I look to the sky
see emerald moving light
turn right in framed space open building
light and motors again
take off my shoes
air my dogs
Tim said when I kicked off
my shoes and sighed after the longest day in D.C.
"Dogs are barkin" felt
right then sounds right now
I love trains
the boy near me is reading a book
by C.S. Lewis
called Mere Christianity
glasses sweeten his face
dark socks in sneakers endearing
he crosses his leg
opens the book
I wish they'd turn out these long lights
I'm glad I'm alive


Everything in D.C. is there
for everyone who reads this poem
so go to go
it's not my job to tell it
I had great fun
with great friends old and new
and rode with emotional gear
strapped on tight
through my kind of hell
one night
But I'm back now
I'll call you whoever you are
and say I'm ready getting
then say good bye now take care now
good night now


Is there anyone on this train
wondering about this last car
cruise business
some other young man
who might find it exciting
to find another young man me in this wondering
He pushes the back of his seat
book and face are out of sight
the stretch from knee
over crotch and front split tail
of flannel shirt either side
of his rise


the warmth when words satisfy
I scratch more flakes
on to white

for Bobby Miller

by Gerard Rizza (1959-1992)