The Man Who Loved Balanchine And Tore At Leaves
Missed Connections in Boulder
The ghosts that you sent me are quiet these days.
I put my ears next to the pictures
Javier the dead rat says hello,
or as far as I can tell,
he’s quiet these days too.
I talk to you all the time in my mind,
I wonder what the collection of our
unspoken conversations has amounted to.
If you imagine talking to me about chemistry
I’ll imagine talking to you about art.
Jack Kerouac was a hack –
his best features were the company he kept.
Ginsberg at least talked
about punk rock and getting fucked in the ear.
Can you say fuck on craiglist postings?
The trains are yelling at me, it’s late, maybe
they’re telling me to go to sleep.
I miss you.
Sometimes, you find or hear or see something so beautifully ordinary, but steeped with such sadness, that you just want to sit and be still with the emotion it creates. That’s how I feel after reading this poem. I look at the words but nothing can adequately be conveyed through my voice or writing.