What the heck: for dreams of zines and lips just enough wet. Bottle-cap yellow brick roads, a pet pigeon, pet bunnies, chickens, a Quarterhorse, dogs, the cats, and Cody the cat. Radio interviews by Eve Abrams that say just exactly enough of that. All the sites and sights and sites I've seen and made and brought into being. The books I've not yet unpacked. I love the medicine and I love the neighbors. I love the oven and I love the bath. Keys not lost and Jennifer Odem. And Ginger Parsons. And Courtney Egan. And Karla and Donny and Ellen. Gregory Good. And David and Adam and Kay and Sean and Tesek and Tara Jill. Stories, poems, magazines, poems in magazines, and New Yorker comics. The porch the fat Christmas bulbs the front of my house is covered in mirrors. I'm bringing a rose bush back to life. Mr. Eddie, Miss T, Miss Martha, Mr. Gregory, Arturo, Malcus, and Mary Santos. Whole Foods and Fairgrinds Coffee for all of the food for me to give away. Luna. I'm thankful for the damn sunlight and the wind and the one tree my neighbor didn't have the Mexicans with machetes chop down, it's a cypress. The workshop. The bed. Twilight. Second lines, I live in the neighborhood of second lines and Cap't Sal's and hand-painted signs and my big iron gate. The loofa plant growing 2 huge loofas and the pecan tree and the pies. Malcolm and Chicory and Otto. Jenny Bagert. Virginia Fleck. Bananas that grow in trees, plus lemons, grapefruit, and oranges, right here in my yard, and guava. The big sky, the free night, trailer-less, a solid floor, solid walls, hot water, a red sweater, the same red sweater I've had for years but who needs another sweater, the same fishnets I've had for years but who needs new fishnets, the same shoes worn down to the sole I'll resole them who needs new shoes. My old car, my legs, my friendly heart, fingers and toes, my womanliness, my manliness, music and music and music. Guitars, banjo, clarinet, tuba, trombone, drums, vox. My voice. Thank god for it all I still have my voice. And lamps and coffee and prosecco and games. Cameras. Scissors. Internet television. Cookie sheets. Electricity. Recycling. Compost pile. The Press Street kids. Drawing with pastels till after dawn to walk home along train tracks leaning on a red arrow sign. Up, sky, down, grass. I don't live under the bridge. The men and women who live under the bridge. What I am doing about that.
