we, poets, talk in page numbers to one another.
i wrote: the good thief page 16 stanza one only
he replied: a green light pages 20-21
the decoding process:
subject: This fullness in my breasts and belly
will ache until it goes away
breaking down like sludge running through
the rushing gutters, the tenderness
impossible to bear, like a love
for everything that never was. Outside
my window, even the trees look incredulous
as if they had just remembered
their cyclical forgetting, and all week
apart from you, the snow falls heavily
mixed with inconstant dirty rain.
reply: HOMAGE TO ATTILA JOZSEF
My back hurts. On one side.
Also I feel that I am simply too large a creature,
that I am spindly. I have lost certain abilities.
I used to be a better driver.
Most of my pleasure comes from eating.
Eating fulfills more than hunger.
Carmina Burana touches me for personal reasons
related to performing it in high school; in other respects
I know it is worn and trite.
I am slowly wearing down my teeth.
I believe my dreams are real, with sincerity,
but am not sincere enough to move into them.
I have a physical condition which makes it impossible for me
to fake interest.
I think everyone on TV looks like me.
I hold many conflicting beliefs. I take pride in this.
My anger is blunt and uncontrolled.
I am able to view nearly everything with a sense of wry
I am too ashamed to be unproductive.
I rely on humor to connect with people.
I try to view nearly every situation as humorous and detached.
People enjoy working with me.
In an office setting I am often described as "laid back."
I can type 67 words per minute.
I am at home,
in a chair,
available for work.
I am the right man for the job.
let's get fat together, read poems and speak in page numbers to one another; i'll be marie and you be matthew and on that someday when you return to my doorstep after years of silence we'll speak again in punctuated eggplant and dog-eared pages of worn out books.