November 12 Instant nonsense

And the,
what is there to say again?
And the steam from her shower comes stealing down the stairs.
I smell London I smell France--I smell, I smell,
Enough to think I exist.

Blue veins and memories, ghosts of a blue spark.
What gets you up in the morning? What keeps you awake at night? Not the cats, not the dog, but the churning passion and desperate regrets, the guilt and the shame, bacon and coffee and the leftover smell of yesterday's oil crisping in sun-filled kitchens, bringing comfort from days-gone-by fried chicken. The warm, the aerosol, the tinny hand bag leading eventually to hair spray and clitoris. I remember the old leather, the purple leather.

Bright pink and bubblegum panties. I liked the eighties--Reagan was comforting to hate. Suddenly, Ortega's back and Reagan's in the ground and Bush, Bush has almost admitted he was wrong. Some other kid might grow up soon, which gives me hope, but not for me. Duran Duran is on tour. Living in a revolving shoe box, with priviledges, outside and in, this aging thing. And strange people keep throwing their pictures on me, love letters and cheap broken bracelets and premature dreams.

Mostly, she said, mostly it's the dreams of peeing. I hate that, she said. I pee and I pee and I pee, but nothing ever changes. There's the shit on the walls dream and the line too long dream and she won't stop talking dream and all I have to do is pee, but there's shit everywhere, on the seat and on the paper, on the rack of magazines. Doesn't that seem like a waste of dreaming, she said.