April 19, 2026

Lately I’ve been thinking of

him.

My blond bass player Georgia boy

how terribly it ended

w/ bruises & broken shredded

hearts

& the party where we met

at the Craftsman in Echo Park

was it really Halloween?

We escaped to the rooftop

& under the stars

we kissed — it was a melding

of bodies & fates

we blended then & we joked

about being Such Good Friends

I never fit w/ anyone else

in his life

a loose cannon ball on a

field of war

it was painful. So there

is that, another truth I

feel compelled not to tell.

I once met a slick rich dick

at a party in Austin

when I came back here

in the heyday of SXSW

mid-nineties

& he asked me in that

Los Angeles way

“What do you do?”

The question I can

never answer w/o a story

so I said “I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?”

“Oh, screenplays and sometimes features, and websites and poetry.”

“Oh,” he said, his eyes darkening.

“You’re a hack.”

I mean, sure buddy, if you want to call it that. I like to think I’m a jack & a jill

of all trades, but sure, I’m a hack.

I had to agree & then

I gathered up all the spit & vitriol I could

and I made him choke on it

w/ these words right here

March 29, 2026

You’re taking off your clothes and he says, “You look nice,” and it’s an incredibly kind thing for him to say because you are a middle-aged woman, bending over to remove your leggings in a very unflattering pose.

You are taking off your clothes in the kitchen looking out the picture windows, high enough on the hill that no one can see you unless you walk directly in front of the glass. Still, chances are limited, as the two nearest houses across the street are vacant anyway. It’s a great sense of freedom, being able to see out into the world while the world cannot see you taking off your clothes as long as the doors to your office are closed.

You are taking off your clothes and it is cold upstairs. The little tubular space heater is humming as you crawl under two blankets, no top sheet, a concession, and the heater bakes your naked body in its little cocoon and you are very warm and comfortable, very soon, enough to turn off the heater with its gleaming red eye in the night, the only source of light in the room.

You are taking off your clothes and I am watching you in awe, amazed at the shape of your shoulders, the firmness of your belly, your excellent ass. I ask how you look so good when you spend most of your time supine. “I spend eight hours every night,” you reply, “sitting on an exercise ball.”

I visualize you, sitting on a giant red ball, your head visible above the front desk, bobbing up and down as you bounce…