Ink-I: sketches and words from the vault
Ramona
Her eyes were too far apart,
She did her hair like an old punk rocker
She had a mole on her chin —
I called him Henry.
Her cheeks were hollow.
Her skin was pale.
Maybe when I close my eyes,
That’s the face I’ll see.
e e cummings
Why don’t you guys join us upstairs? You’ve driven a long way
No, you guys need to talk.
Yes. Yes we do… How much has she had to drink?
She lost control. We asked —
Sure no coffee?
No, just talk it out, you two.
Sweetheart
Reverie
She sits on the floor by the Warholesque sofa,
She folds up her clothes, and she ties up her hair
With practiced precision — mocha and fuchsia,
She tosses her purples, her pinks, and her reds.
The warm sunlight breaches the faux wooden windows,
As wavelengths collapse on the waves of her hair.
She conjures up features of Hollywood sirens.
As muscular memory repeats itself.
Regular motion — exotic, erotic —
An enigma that gently unravels itself
To release from within it, a humdrum rhythm
That stops;
And starts;
And stops once again.
Memory (I)
Once:
There was sex in the way that she folded her clothes,
The way that she tied up her hair, the way that she moved.
Her every expression exuded exuberance
Concealing a character drowning in depth.
Once:
Her palm on your wrist was par for the course
And napalm would course through the nape of your neck,
And you would declare that you’ll never write poetry
And you’d wallow beside her, say romance is dead.
Nostalgia
Ah!
To be young and to be in love
To be undone and to be loved
To be selfish
To be kind
To be leery
To be blind
To be young and to be in love.
Memory (II)
As the reverie fades,
the memory remains,
that you too were once young in love.
On your Warholesque sofa,
in nothing but loafers,
you too were once young in love.
Her memetic movements, so practiced, precise —
an enigma that gently unraveled itself.
To reveal within it a muscular memory
that sadly but surely pleasures itself.
Other people’s girlfriends
I’m making a habit of falling in love
With other people’s girlfriends.
If those guys could read the minds of others,
I wouldn’t be left with too many friends.
Imaginary schadenfreude
Cliché:
The best revenge is living well.
Yeah?
Well, all right.
Everything you miss is more of exactly the same
