later i returned to the other side. i had a new coat, a bunch of music, a couple books. take that, san francisco: my spoils. i also had some fudge but it didn’t leave in fudge form but died during all about eve.

but i am still a little disconnected. is that the right word? probably not, but i can’t use the most direct word, just as i can’t keep my tenses straight when memory is concerned. this, the present is thin, and the past and future will leak themselves into it, drippy dripping in, smack into the puddle.

water is a useless symbol.

i am listening to June of 44. Now. No, not then now, now.

i could very well be a slam poet in love with a rock star painter coffeeshop barista. i could be a slam poet in love with silence, with tongues i cannot speak.

ah yes. this is the unbelievable part, which i have led up to. poorly. in bed i am disconnected. my mind flails at the end of its leash. it lies to me. and this is why i cannot fall asleep very much any more. but at some point i close my eyes, and see, much clearer than i am capable of imagining things, a swatch of light moving over a woman’s face. i see her lips first and her jaw.

i found it as beautiful as i found the woman walking through san francisco on the 12th in the rain. what are you doing here, i wanted to ask. you don’t belong.

the light moved up and then faded out. i never saw her eyes. night horses. but i didn’t dream.