What I know about the weather
When it rains it tells you a different story than the sun does, or even the clouds themselves, allowing the rain to speak for itself. And it’s not the angels crying, it’s rain. Strange and romantic sites of holes in the ground. Someone there now. Heat coupled with rupture captures steam in the off airs. Pressing on the weather makes sense, but keeps you coming back for more. During the summer, those drier days as well as the wet ones keep coming up with something felt as pure heat, with water on top. The hybridian enormous. I touch the air like it was your hand and it comes back wet. You pull up your shorts and the sun is out and it’s raining and it’s not cloudy but snowing like it just turned December and that’s just ice from the moving truck blowing down the gust from the street. On the Avenue it’s warmer and the weather is water, in different pants, and you respond likewise, in different pants. You answer your own questions like weather. 98 degrees shouldn’t be normal, it’s not comfortable. But it is. They tell you all the time.
What I know about men
Every juicy mouth is a transcendental problem. There were hundreds of men and they were all named Anthony. Or Boris, or Craig. The regrets of the open window and the falling, out of time beneath the shuttered sutures. I feel modest around them. And the men conjugate men as if they were plural. And there are men in styles and in styles better than you and in styles attempting to be less than you in their attempt to be better than you. That’s men, trying so hard. At a mental altitude, one can attempt to combine their doubt with your possible. Trying on a man, you find you need to take a little in at the inseam. Men seem confident, but that’s just their mothers cheering. From the mercy of each man I am grateful for these tri-built touches. A mercy is condescending, as a love, a temper, a love. A many men, psycho-sexually astute enough to know that each torch from his tip is a power best weld in passing, can and do curl through one another with a clean edge and a smudge across their face. Men, they speak in categories. We can regret men and men can regret us. There’s the beauty of regret, the ability to do it. The how every man is more or less equally observed by other men and that is that. Amorous indifferent men are different than the hateful ones. The men go mysteriously missing. How boring it can be to be a man, from month to month, and never bleed. Men can call their shits “kids” and their kids “shits”, and often do. To place a hand on another is to claim it, quietly, violently, lovingly. Men talking like Laura never died or Jamie never went away never to be heard from again. Men laughing and slapping their laughs in each others faces. Subtle men as men as moss. Soft. Men speak in the air with their clothes on. On a warm day, much would be made of the rubbery mastery of a man. My numbers speak to the frailty of purchase, of torn sentences and other flotsam. Infant men have a right to privacy, and to see them on the bus, reaching to another not their mother, I imagine the outcome, done dilly-dallying, and reaching for a break and not a braid on the back of the stranger sitting in front of him on a bus at 8:30 in the morning. Men as a fuck-you in pants and diapers, dripping with the shits of their desires. Men grab at anything and everything, the hunger for the body begs the body to be more active. The mind syllabates at the reason why the socks stay dry. Men don’t know people like man knows the difference. An analogy like a eulogy or at least how I understand those words to mean men. Mean men make statements against you to make themselves mean more to you, and they do, but not in the way they want. A whisper is a whisker against the face and can leave a mark come morning. I’ve sexually seen the damascus of men and can’t control the outcome. Men like to fuck. Men see other men as either wanting to be them or be with them or else. When a man says he believes you, he’s just agreeing with you. Having the frailty to apprehend he blasts a torrent of opinion and calls it fact, and you’re just too dumb to understand the facts of the case. How does one make men actual? Some men’s cocks and faces have a similar bend. Some men enable a voice like a cherry tree and you gorge yourself and spit out the pits. Men are a life with an obituary inside it.
What I know about the bedsheets
They haven’t been washed in forever, and the smells now mingle over one another like strangely comfortable covers. There is a body and bodies in these sheets, strongly sweet with the stench. They cover my nights with the coax of dreams of the days when they were fresh and smelled like a store or plastic.
And then I wake up, in sweats, remembering, the bedsheets kicked off the bed in a pile on the floor and I smell oranges.
I reach for the sheets and grab up air, still, as if hanging in the hall like the portrait of a dead man, smiling mockingly, but slyly, at the man you lay there being.
