Pest-Holes in my Twenties

1.

I humored you in your parody of courtship. I have a picture you took of yourself. You have long arms.  In last night’s worm there was a dream. I’d better replace my heirloom misery kit, perhaps with this latex paper bag costume, cozier than burlap. My static technique loses resonance, sitting here next to the “_____” man in the library. (Will fill in later.)

2.

Ever since J. discovered the Burger King receipt in the Escort he has acted somewhat differently. He divined that I had been there and had eaten there. He’s an investigator. And in all of Christendom I have never seen such berries these berries can’t exist they aren't in my guide.         

3.

My favorite work of art and why: Anything by Manet or Man Ray because of the sepia. This one basement dive was decorated with mining equipment. Before late-night cemetery drives we called it our safety country. My edition was censored and tattered so how could I learn my lines in time? Tell me why, because of me. Felt like disengaging, like a cumulo-cirrus over Shenandoah, or a fire that refuses to go out just because it's on the road to hell.

4.

There was a time lapse, a sticky relationship based on a missing paragraph.

5.

I’ve heard that television before. So has my dog. Once I was a dead body too. Was allowed into the green room because my doctor father treated a lot of cronies’ lung ailments. I’ve returned and no longer believe that the sun circles the earth. Every woman here is called Jezebel and they drink wine and tend vineyards. I fit in. I want to revel in the legitimate theater.

Wonder if you still look like Errol Flynn

                 in his aviator’s outfit… And what about those bunkbeds in your bedroom? I thought your last name was something other than what it was. The songs were clunkers, overweight—but people still danced.

                 I was a ferocious dancer and supposedly had a boyfriend. Your uncle eye doctor I have been in his office. That made the whole episode homier. I take back what I said about your costume.

                 In the Cherry Orchard you never did play Uncle Tree. I was your secret, an embarrassment. Children of war charm me like a can of Paris. Your spy street address became our outside joke.

                 I made my way once to your hometown. You wrote me a letter: I’m going to search for it now. The chances of me finding it are one in one thousand exactly.

                 Yet, love might creep into my thoughts, like Flynn, especially those days I stay home and translate animal code. I want this hour to be more than celluloid, more than a museum encounter.

                 A particulate thought, a spark between ears. Enough to get inside me and make a few phone calls. One more reason to eat fish in soup.

                 The authoritative voice-over continues to ask: What has the billiard ball to do with world history? With red ribbons pinned to skull cap? With love, a spy, ever since that well-met day.