that was fun,

that was fun, she says, we

should do

that

more often.

what? I ask.

have fun? or have

sex?

and I walk out

of the room,

naked, to

flush

the condom

stuck to my

still-hard dick before

she has time to

say anything.

a few days

later, I get her answer:

neither.

and I lose my
first printing
copy
of James Dickey's
Deliverance.

Live in Central Park

I leave a party

once they put on a recording of some old Paul Simon,

walk home

and dial a few numbers

hoping, for some reason, to

put my foot in a

pile

of sentimental bullshit

with past lovers.

none of
them

pick
up:

what a relief.

One for the middle aged Ethiopian man who says I smoke too much

I forgive him:
who doesn’t smoke too much?
and he tips a dollar for

every cup of 

coffee he buys.

I just

wish that he didn’t
smoke

Parliament lights.

A Conversation Regarding Optimisim

afterward, he chews his finger nails and

she walks off. a little

while later, she comes

back with a window fan.

Blind Date

Her: don’t those rubber bands get stuck in your arm hair?

Him: no.

            Later, in a cab, somewhere on Girard--

Her: we’re not gonna do anything, okay? we’ll just see what happens. okay?

Him: okay.

And not much happens.

He wakes up naked and hungover in the a/m.

Awkward car ride home (she drives).

            Expectation—always a little bit more one-sided

Than he’d like.

Happy Hour, Local

I watch the bartender

take care of her side-work.

she fills

salt shakers,

pepper shakers, some

bottles of hot sauce.

she has great legs in a
pair of short black
shorts, so

I watch those, too, as she

walks down the bar

over to where I’m sitting.

now, the whole place

stinks like

malt vinegar

and I

say,

“sure”

when asked if

I’ll have

another.

I pretend she means

another look at all of that leg

but I take a sip off the top

of the beer just the

same.

Little Thoughts

I scratch the inside of

my ear and

wonder:

what will

she be wearing

tonight?

is she

convinced that I don’t

care one way or the other

if she shaves her

legs?

Couch Surfer

“I’m studying Proust,” she says.

"I’m reading Celine."

“ever read Bukowski in French?” I ask her.

“yes,” she says, “he’s better in

French.”

“I’ll teach you French in two or three hours,” she says

it won’t take

that

long, I think to

myself.

all of that hair

falling down the back

of her

dress

in long black

curls

the shape of her nose

her big feet.

I’m drinking vodka orange

and tripping on mushrooms

terrified of all that

French.