tummy

bastille day. all the bars are closing. i can sit here and kiss my leg all night but that's not going to write my poem. and tomorrow i'm to meet with yusef, without drafts, pathetic and crestfallen, ready only to talk about jazz like tonight on the boat. he told me my work was interesting. i must've blushed, then: remember coleman's free jazz or on the corner sessions? his favorite is bird but i haven't been there yet. let me name drop all night, i can do it, but it depends on you to make a difference.

i've been feeling for new york. it has been an experience being in paris but it makes my city glow differently and from afar. the air conditioning, the all-night subways, the bars open 'til 4 am, but who am i kidding? i'm not that girl anymore. i miss already corona park, moses' to-scale model of the entire city--daunting yet lovely, i could even point out my apartment, my favorite place to buy pad thai.

there is a sprig of lavender on my bedside table, atop the pass navigo portrait i have yet to adhere. i watched blade runner this morning for breakfast. i have been studying the surrealist's in class. they were so madly in love with love, something real yet intangible, nondescript, amorphous. there is also medicated blistex on my side table. i used it to heal a scar in cadaques. cadaques, cadaques ghost melody of leonard cohen. i'm tired. i think i'm losing my head.