It’s almost over.

This is my last holiday evening. Tomorrow it will be
into the shower, into the car, into the office, into the small, frantic world of
clients and deadlines and doing what needs doing.

There are days I wish I had no heart.
That I were only a ball of curiosity, a polite blank sheet, neutral and rational
and inert. And there are days I wish I didn’t think. To, as the Shins whine,
“grab the yoke from the pilot and fly the whole mess into the sea.”

I will not make a good Buddhist, oh

There are days I wish love would
fly from me and not return. There are days when I want to kiss every scab, scar,
puncture, misregistered DNA on my skin and tell them, it’s all right, it doesn’t
hurt to be there. There are days when I can only stare at surfaces and not
desire to see what they conceal. There are days when the world is too tight and
my feet too flat. There are days when sadness is all I own. There are days of
more hours than I know what to do with. There are days when my hands worship
their own gods. There are days when I pop balloons and frighten myself. There
are days, and days, and days, and more like them, and I am waiting for that one
day, that day when I catch myself just in time, when love will not spell grief,
when grief will be kind, when the weight on my back will only be

From “Summer Night,” by Tony

“Sometimes when she cries I
think how

cigarettes and ice cream are

of the chemical composition of her

sometimes I think about her mom
and dad,

her catastrophic history with men

And I can feel the roots of my

convulse, yanking themselves up,
wanting to

walk over there and hold

We sit in our wooden

convinced that we have ruined

while through the open

comes the smell of