exercise!

So I'm way too much of a wuss to go running, even in 38 degree weather. So sue me.

I've been re-exercising my brain. It makes me heppeh.

Janet McCann says journals like titles, but this one doesn't have one, and I'm not sending it to a journal.

you were the preacher's son
(how fucking perfect)
and of course, the snow couldn't leave
the Spring alone. mud-stained
and piled in parking lots overdue
to truck-haul off: May deadline.

you were skinny, and kind of mean, actually.
you stood me up, blew me off, twice
at least. The "ugly sweater" Christmas
party--you never called, and black-holed
my invite for dancing. this before
the coffee mug of Jack-and-coke
and your joint, hot light in the long winter undone
that, even mid-March, wouldn't leave us alone.

You were short with me: gravel voice
clipped sentences and your turned down mouth
for a mind aisled, altared, pewed
at my sighing speech. Anyway
two black and tans and one lung later
later you got gentle. and i fell
for it.

Next days I was angst to hate you. you
skipped town, but two weeks between
and ignoring me.
"Jesus Christ!" and still
no answer.
I never got my green coffee mug
back either. and it had my name on it, too.

Screaming Lobsters

'For those of us who are concerned about cooking screaming lobsters, here are the facts. The nervous system of a lobster is decentralized and has been compared to that of a grasshopper. From what we know, this means they probably feel little or no pain. They also have no vocal chords. The sound I may have heard is actually steam escaping from the shell as the lobster cooks. If you're still concerned about hurting the lobster, begin to cook it in cold water instead of hot. As the temperature rises, it will put the lobster to sleep. So will laying it on its back for a few minutes.'

It's because we bought it live in Menemsha, but I would only cook the potatoes,
and had to leave the room when he got the lobster into the pot and turned on the stove. So, that a lobster doesn't really scream, helps.
_______________________________________________________________________


Justinian

They fluenced me to
knowledge,
all their "don't
you feel it's right"s.

Soft decision, eighteen
years, which is
to say to come
sleepwalkwandering:

underage at twenty with
redwine poured throaty
blurred
road home, darked.

That series of names, of hands, of mouths
leaning
` my fishy lip wondering:
my failed opacity

My stranger, friend's lover, called
same who just
in jest, but fair, redeemed
six letters, saying,
"come,
we have roasted
chestnuts
and big christmas trees
with lights".