Loose ends

San Jose Travel Blog

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Dear Gayle:

            Dearest G.

                        in Costa Rica


yer missive arriving this watershed week.  me tossing my academic career down the institutional john.  programme meeting from hell--shit stuff--me inserting many appendages in my mouth at once--enmity incurred from various manipulative faculty  say la v.  no?


yer exodus a model & inspiration:  me  realizing academe is the death of writing.  Figure on playing this year for economic spurs--then, bam.  this boyz history.  o g.  do this sound familiar?  hunh?


Gayle i love books,  love reading,  but what's up with my life's got nothin to do w/ this.


            and yer hand searching out

            the pads of my fingers. yer

            lips yer smiles & tongue.


Spanish?  hablos?  a good lingo?


& are you in-spired by the heat?  me wishing to be there in the inspiration.

the blue lines on this page not yer page a banner furrows  leader lines  heads of them  will you get this there?


o got no here (yes) at all


this negative i have of you on the floor

in a white robe in a yellow light

w/ smoke rings dancing in my




my friend Auggie once wrote:

"memory stinks like a good marinara sauce"

O yes it does

            a crazy wor(l)d

                         is this


and Gayle  knowing you t(here)

t(h)inking bout the same fiction

is both a bloodscore and a blowfish


pois-on-us  sushi  aphrodisiac

&       heart   symphony

         sim  phony

         simp   honey


no word game could explain this thing i want to chune on you


&  how about the night-times (t)here?  places to lay a body down and see a cosmology?


the stars died in toronto the day barrie nichol died--the lights in the saints' eyes snuffed

                      cause cloud-hidden cried

       noone to write her (here) no more


this is my martyourology.  an old st. i never new explained with you --looking to cloud-town & seeing no thing on a cold autumnal t.o. eve.


outside hart house i had this revelation

holding you close a dervish


i'm in hart house now  this is my here (de-stabil-ized) & collective memory

--the music for us to dance to cascading out the old brick & ghosting


there is a mythology to this place i won't efface or face now


christ i'm  babbling, sorry.


i miss your/our s(k)in & i thank you for that:


take me no wrong way  how a cryptogram might take you


reed tween the line



love Micaleh





We are so often drawn to love stories. It's second nature. And I've even got the element of sleaze for mine, I suppose: as I was writing Michael, I was planning to meet Jeff.  Sure, things were complicated, but I figured "Hey, they knew about each other, so everything's above board right?"  With each word, each story told,  another is somehow (impossibly) both concurrent and excluded.

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