19.08.05 - 3:12 p.m.

there's a letter burning a hole in the small, zippered pocket of my purse and it doesn't even say anything important, just stories from a day last week when i missed you especially, a bit of poetry: something i haven't done since jason and i exchanged other people's poems for a solid year. elizabeth barrett begat robert browning who (somehow) begat frank o'hara who led to ee cummings who led to ezra pound and robert frost (ironically, of course) and adrienne rich and audre lorde and sylvia plath so ted hughes - his only misstep - and shel silverstein, culminating in david lehman which settled things, made me think that he was who i wanted. and i did, for years though not on end. i'd lapse for months like after the bratmobile show that gave me a perfect excuse to drive to berkeley in the middle of the night, the whole day where he essentially ignored me, the stomachache that followed and the trip home, furious with myself for being furious with him. he was much better in letters which is probably the case with most everyone, but he had his real life moments, too. we danced in his dorm room to stockholm syndrome. he woke me up in the middle of the night to walk in pajamas and flipflops to an all-night hot dog vendor who sold fake chilidogs. and, of course, he initiated a year-long poem exchange.



hands need warming early in the morning
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