Asymptote

When people envisioned a flat earth
And the falling off beyond
What feeling came into their throat?
A closing off or choking up
Palpitations of eagerness
At what might meet a body in the end?

Staring out at the mountains, the ocean,
the expanses of California
puts me in mind of death, the wind rushing past
my ears. A precipitous drop off the edge
of the world. Closer, closer,
a waning of expectations
amassing imminence.

Sometimes Things Are Easy

I recently ordered a subscription to the New Yorker. It seemed almost extravagantly expensive compared to the blithering fashion mags that I usually read - $47 for a year!

But it's all in the pursuit of brain-improving liberalism and whatever. Right. Then, I received a letter through the mail (!) letting me know that I could subscribe at "Professional" rates. I don't know why my profession entitles me to these rates, but apparently, I can now subscribe for $25/year. I didn't know whether I could still get this rate, and hate talking to people on the phone, so I just left the letter on my countertop until I had a free moment.

MLK, Jr. Day is proving to be just a moment, and how!

Me: Well, I got this letter in the mail telling me that I could get a $25 dollar rate. But I just signed up for the full price subscription.
Sales Rep: For how many issues is this rate?
Me: Um...47?
Sales Rep: Okay. I'll change that over for you. We'll issue you a credit.

What?!?

Straight Shooter

If I'm going to be honest,
your art can't impress me.
It reminds me of your precocity,
stilted,
vague
Like how you brush the hair from your eyes,
scuffle by in your shoes
and maybe break my heart a little
each time you don't really
smile at me

Threnody

Opera on the radio -
A live performance of Macbeth on a crisp
afternoon in January.

Through the half-open window comes
the mournful, throbbing call of an owl.
Four times, and then only
silence
no flapping of wings.

Endlessly Disappointing

To encounter the "same person" over and over again. Tonight it was the butch Korean lesbian.

Always louder than her companions, given to profanity and self-love and so stridently proud of her great rebellion that she does not realize it has deprived her of a deeper understanding of the world.

So when I hear "That gianduja gelato was a fuckin' orgasm in a paper cup!" from the table next to mine, I'm not so much curious about how good the gelato tasted, but more about what other things taste like for her, late at night, between her exotic girlfriend's legs, when she remembers that Jesus loves her unconditionally.