In An Apartment on Minor St.

I was tired of having a baby. It was really just the thought of having to take care of one that was making me tired.
I received a letter and then a phone call which both explained that there were many things left unsaid. I knew that.
I found a bunch of 7-inch records that described the stars. Words of the Constellations?
They were in a little cardboard box (white and blue and pink) with star shapes punched in them.
I went on a walk somewhere rainy at night. I decided I could move in there in a couple years.

On an island much like Saturna

Beckian and one of mother's journalist friends have property there-everyone was roving around the island (which also had a lake in the middle- so it was like a ring of land) in the dark, stumbly like a midwestern party in the woods. Allyson B. was there and every time I ran into her we had to do this jig/riverdance/footkicking dance that she knew very well but I was clumsy at. But I couldn't not do it. Her stare was very persuasive. At the party, Allyson and Tyler had been doing funny gorilla leg dances on a couch.
Justin and Brad decided to stay an extra night but I rode a tippy boat back to the mainland.
It was something like an old toy boat from the 30's or 40's, rust and raincoats. It was raining and the streets were cobblestone, slick, windy: like Florence at night, late spring. I was completely alone. Could see myself from above running through streets. I would notice the slight sepia of the streetlights and then go back into my body. I thought of somebody else's wedding picture. I ran to K's house, which was empty, where we had some agreement I could sleep. I was running with urgency as if he would be there, knowing he would not.
At K's, on an old squeaky screen porch that itself is a jewel box, I called the journalist. I told her "thank you for having me over." There was a long pause and I looked at the coffee cups and lowlit colorful pitchers hung on the wall. It seemed like a nice place. It was like a little coffee shop with great paint and many newspapers in I use to live in. I took a sip of wine. I told Margaret, the journalist, about what a great deal the small bottle of wine had been: "it was only 3.75!" She said she got hers for only 75 cents. The phone noise and the sky became the same color/sound combination--
high and low pitch at once and bright blue;an arm holding an empty plastic bottle out the passenger side of a car in the mountains, tilted just enough to make a noise.

Folding Up The Street

You came to visit, uninvited/unannounced. Slept with your feet under my head on the side of a street in The Mission. I told everyone I’d been camping, which was true, in a way. The tent was shaped like the husk of a cartoon bear. I said it could fit six people. They all stood around it expectantly, skeptics from backpacking trips. There was only room for one. The tent smelled of sour wine. My mother found me sleeping on the street. She folded the street up and brought it back from the west coast to home. You were turning into a little boy but your feet stayed the same size. Your voice was clear when you told her you’d always wanted to meet her. She nodded and did not ask who you were.

A Boat So Big, I Never Find The Water

On five-story boat. A boat with many, many stairs. a boat like the old paper mill on Alcott. it is sunny and swaying. the stairs are almost like ladders. I spend most of my time looking for the people who are in my group. some people I met in Europe last summer are there but I feel embarrassed in front of them and keep hiding when I look out of the round portal doors and in on their on-deck campfire happiness. In my head is an object made of sticks and colorful string. Looking for Justin and Bradley. On a boat so big I can never find the water.

I Could Stay There Forever

feet at the edge of a muddy hill: yellowed grass, big trees, sun-wind.

Music Has Always Been Difficult

At a cabin. Played the piano in a room so slanted it was falling off from the rest of the house, balancing on a railing. I could barely climb my way up and out. The person whose turn it was after me was bigger than me and I was afraid they would knock the room out of the tree/air.

These Things Just Drive Themselves

Next to my parent's house there is an abandoned amusement park. It is spring; raining, drizzly. I walk through the tunnels where the tracks for the rides are. One begins running- a red trolley-type thing that goes around the park. Another starts up and they are nearly involved in a collision. I jump off the track and onto a trolley, next to the driver. Brad is driving, wearing the disguise of one of the workers. He's dropped a cigarette or something and is not too concerned with operating the machinery. I suppose there is a track for a reason.