-
a late digestif
it’s after our coffee,the room is still a messfrom last night’s “Italiannight.”we made our own pastawith your new pasta makerafter we finally figured outhow to put it together,jamming the plastic inthere and me cranking thehandle like mad. dougheverywhere today – i wasthrowing it up in the air likei was making pizza – and theentire apartment reeks
-
bay state of mind
“Massachusetts Avenue!” I yell walking with her down Westwood. “I always seem to find the Massachusetts Avenue in every city. Somehow.” We continue walking, past Bristol Farms and she asks, “Is that it right there? Should we cross?” “No,” I say, “it’s past the FedEx, on the next block up there. See it? Paris Bakery?”
-
procrastinating
the reasons not to write a poem are many. you only have 20 minutes and you know you need more than that to get into a FLOW. you know that poetry isn’t made with sips but gulps. you know poems are like the birds and they’re not singing. you know that poems can’t be squeezed