My geometry teacher had said something intelligent many years ago. Standing in front of the class, fat and balding, making eye contact with all of the men, making breast contact with the women, explaining that when people get angry they get stupid. "The probability of hitting a two-by-four is far greater than smashing into the empty space."

The wall stood still without an echo of transferred force. The white paint stoic instead of bruised, my hand hung broken and exposed, a beanbag of sand and bone. Why do you need your right hand if you aren't writing? The hair in my nose was radiating in its effort to summon tears. It wasn't the sour sting of the wound made worst by the ceiling fan; it was something my father told me before I was a man.

"People will only know what you let them."

Reason returns to me and I walk out onto the balcony. Orion has appeared again and fall is here. His head is past zenith and his toes almost touch the horizon to the south. His cart wheeling comforts me. This hunter will keep the beasts away, his tour lasting until spring comes around again.

I listen to the Iraqis next door. I can only relate in that my beard appears frayed, like someone took a razor to my face, missing the skin. The climate changes with the seasons and a will to survive an everlasting manifestation haunts me. The razor never touches skin.

I take what I can inside and begin writing.
―

[This portion appears in italics in hard copy to indicate that this is what the narrator goes inside and writes.]

"I am going to submit everything I can to this shit magazine until they accept it. When they do, I will tell them it's been printed elsewhere."

"What's the point in that? If they are so shitty, why do you care?"

"Baby the point is that this was my best work. From the look of most of these magazines my work should be a kick to the teeth."

"Well, you know, maybe you just need to get better." She moves from the bedroom door, where she was leaning, to the kitchen. The refrigerator opens, she leans in. "Have some new experiences. Maybe that's why you are stuck lately, writers cannot be stagnant." When she told Christopher about breaking her end of the lease and moving to Oakland, Christopher responded by asking what he was suppose to do with the furniture.

"What the -? Get better?" He raises his voice to be heard from the bedroom over the cheap hum of the ice box. "I forgot you were the poet. Excuse me."

"Christopher, just cause you write on your computer some poetry doesn't make you the king bee, I'm sorry. No one ever tells you anything negative about your poetry. This one magazine rejects you twice and you can't stand it." She moves back to the doorway and wonders if they will be able to discuss new lovers. Two days from now she will be sitting under an oak tree reading Guy Debord, having her nipples slowly circled in the sun by new finger tips. Maybe a woman's, who knows? That's what excites her. The first independent era of error. She wasn't sorry this one lasted two years.

"Basically you are saying I am only half of what I claim to be and I willingly live in a disillusioned reality?" He always stares at the bookshelf or out the window when they have discussions. This afternoon it's Adrienne Rich's Diving into the Wreck.

"SORT OF. Sort of. That's the point. No one ever criticizes your work effectively." It's easy for her to feel in control as she speaks; Christopher only makes eye contact when no one is talking.

"I need to get ready."

"Wait. We are not done here. I just –"

"I am going to be late." As Christopher passes their eyes meet. "Excuse me."

[end italics]
―

My computer is a furnace. The sleep of missing months approaches. I have crumbled the poetry out of my hand. The pain produces prose and her memory stares at me through the black hole in the wall. There is nothing more I know at this time of night.
―

Masturbating at 9:45am when you should be in philosophy class is not a good idea. I end up on my knees facing the crucifix. When I nailed it above my bedroom door I thought it would bring me some kind of luck. Now I think of childhood. Raising your kid Catholic but never baptizing him does not foster social anxiety. He understands that he will not be able to take part in certain things but instead sits, alone and quiet, and waits and watches and patience makes his little legs restless. My cum feels like I'm passing stones; guilt and embarrassment set in.

In the kitchen, drinking at 9:50am is not much better when you told yourself you quit smoking last night. It's a good thing no one else heard me. Talking to yourself while setting goals is the best way to break them.

I take a pint glass and fill it with ice. Proportion is the key to any drink. Judging by the way my friends pour their cocktails I must have had the hardest working father. When the vodka has almost filled the glass I add a splash of orange juice for color. Holding the pint, my hand is almost as cold as my foot. I only have one sock on.

I wrote a poem yesterday. Back in the bedroom I realize I never closed out the application. I constantly edit while I write. Often times this means I read and reread a piece two-hundred times before completion. This can be a bit trying on the eyes if your poetry never leaves fifty words or ten lines. If I'm disturbed or if I get up for some reason the poem stays where it's at. I never rewrite, I cannot revisit. Revision is for people who think their work gets better with time.

I take the books and loose papers off of my desk and set them on the floor. I put my glass down in front of me. Sitting and rereading the poem I doubt its rejectable qualities and start looking up journals. This process will usually take up a good majority of my day. I will call out of work. Most of the following hours involve new drinks and more cigarettes. I decide during a smoke break that poets who think drinking and snorting coke leads to good writing are foolish. There is a unanimous vote. I will keep this secret to myself. Discussing the merits of good writing with people that haven't produced any is pointless.

After the sun goes down I take a shower.

Over the water and music I must have not heard her come in. My subtle humming and vicious air-drumming must have distracted me from locking the door on the way to the bathroom. When I reach the bedroom I am not surprised that she is sitting at my desk. Instead of acknowledging me she begins to read aloud,

"Time is a wristwatch.

reminiscent skin
breathe in, breathe in
remembrance is want
of all that stirs about her
nuances of blue
crescendoing glaciers
in sets of two
I sleep half conscious
in your flame
collapsing lungs
carnival balloons you've got a hold of."

I do not get dressed while she has her back to me. I grab a cigarette off the night stand and light it. She swings around in the chair and looks me over. "Glaciers don't crescendo."

"Then you've never seen one." When people sleep with poets they like to think the work is about them. She thinks she's new. I thought her different. Assumption is the death of everything. I take another drag as she hands me a beer.

"And my eyes aren't blue." She kisses me hard and I am the glacier. We never kiss on the mouth unless I am inside of her. She tells me she thought the beer would make up for arriving unexpectedly. Should she go back outside and knock, or should she just leave? she asks. I don't answer. Her father died when she was young, she doesn't know when to stop talking. I walk her to the door.

As soon as I tighten my belt she knocks. She must be using the peephole. It was installed backwards. My apartment is a fishbowl. She knocks again and I imagine it's someone else. I unlock the deadbolt and walk to my desk. I write "fishbowl" on piece of paper. After a few seconds she lets herself in. It is my guess that every time she does this she is two seconds away from turning around and walking back to her car. I can hear her thoughts.

"Writing anything good?"

I tell her if she really must know it's none of her fucking business.

We laugh for different reasons.
―

The familiar chill of stagnant amphetamine is beginning to run its course as we drive to the liquor store. My cigarette only makes my jaw tighten and my balls feel like imploding prunes. She pulls into the gas station across the street from the store and fills up. For all the chauffeuring she does, I am never asked for money. I never offer. Instead of pulling out and making the u-turn, she drives straight across the invisible island of double yellow lines and parks.

I've been coming to the same liquor store since high school. I knew enough Punjabi pleasantries to get a good price. Being sixteen and buying liquor means a fifteen dollar fifth of anything is going to cost you twenty. Your purchase was never rung up.

Considering her French Connection antics she must have forgotten this store is flagged. It is always amazing to me that you can still see the flashing red and blue over the glare of the spotlight. Her ticket is close to a hundred.


After we thank the peace officer for wishing us a good night I ask her if she wants anything from inside. "No." She doesn't look up. I open the door to get out. "Some smokes," she says, making a move for her purse. I shut the door.

Inside I grab a twelve-ounce Minute Maid orange juice, no pulp, and walk to the counter.

"How are you doing tonight, my friend?"

"Well Sonny, I'll be a lot better in about five minutes. I'll take this and two packs of Camel lights."

"No vodka tonight sir?"

"Well Sonny, if I wasn't getting vodka, what would I need this orange juice for?"

He bags everything and I pay. He tells me to have a good night. I wish his family well and walk out the door. The car is already running and I get in.


When I wake up we are parked in front of my apartment. I am never quite sure how long she continues to drive after I pass out or how long she sits and watches me sleep. We make our way through the lobby to the elevator. She stops at the door and I walk in. What irritates me about this is that I always have to say something along the lines of "Aren't you coming in?" or "Shut the door" before she enters. When she crawls into bed she has not completely undressed. Her panties suggest that we might just lay here tonight instead of exchanging bad breath and sweat. After an hour I realize her presence huddled in my wing is weakening my attempts at sleep. I tell her to leave. She dresses quickly in the dark and the door slams. A few seconds pass and I hear her lock the deadbolt. Why she never uses that key is beyond me.

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