I take Jimmy for granted. I avoid correspondence. I am late to brunch. I listen to Beth Gibbons or Cat Power. I am moody, at turns sad or cold or secretly exhilarated. I write little and when I do, I write nonsensical poems, city-poems or poems about women I have loved. Upon finishing Wayward Girls and Wicked Women, an anthology of subversive stories edited by Angela Carter, I dozed off and dreamt of a immense house, its closets containing strange creatures, strange worlds. I worry over cavities, our lack of health insurance, rent, destructive habits like following the same/comfortable/familiar story-lines. I think that life steals the time that writing needs but writing needs life to steal breath from. I bike past the corpses of birds to and from work each day. I drink whisky out of stemmed glasses; otherwise when glass-clutched ice cubes touch finger-skin, a young woman's blood wakens and these ten pricked fingers of mine hurt.

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