netflix came, alongside the piled up bank account statements. here in texas theres no sign of season change quite yet.
i open the refrigerator and see mustard and the shredded carrots for sushi we didnt make staring back
i shut it and make one last sandwich
today is week three of paralyzation.
at least, i assume its week three, i mean i havent really been counting
tired of being tired, exhausted of doing absolutely nothing
i feel comatose in this room,
and i rearranged it for hopes id start on something,
but really, all the rearranging did was focus the energy on the bed facing the television set

every night my love turns to me,
blue in the face and glowing,
his amorphous shape made of oscillating lines,
embracing me til early morning
one night he looks like humphrey in casablanca,
my room transforming into moroccan nights and tight-lipped, drawn out kisses
another evening comes along. hes buschemi in fargo, and im hating the accent
last night you looked rather older, that bearded scruff on your lower jaw
just divorced from laura linney and cursing at ping pong with your-- sorry, kevin kline's son

i feel as though im living more vividly in my dreams
and am merely sleepwalking through reality

the last time i cried was when my stomach was throwing spasms during the miller family flu
and before that, god if only i could remember
what were the whereabouts on the epidural you slipped into my back, through a bloody mary, take a sip
no, this cant be me
this cant be it
why cant i be let off at malta

But we’re not going to Malta. Malta is drifting past us, or we are drifting past it—an amorphous hump of green and brown bobbing in the portholes with the horizon as the ship heaves over whitecaps wisping into rainbows for a moment, then dissolving back into the sea.


it is three forty eight am

robert altman's three women teases me beside my tele
the black with brown dachshund snores under the covers
i recollect the days where i wrote haikus for a peace of mind
and made microwaved sweet potatoes for a living

lately ive been drifting in and out of sleep vs. reality
ill wake up to a light knocking on my front door at four
and sleepily cover myself just in case its the plumber.
waves of my feet drying in mud interlace with this everlasting feeling of being stuck.
i dream of one person in particular
every bloody night,
and i want them gone.
david told us drinking beer before bed kept the mosquitos away
those buzzing tiny airplanes that flew straight into our ears...
i wonder if i drink before bed here if itll keep the mosquitos out of my dreams

id like to squish you, invisible blood sucker.
you are far too fast for my fly swattin' ways


and of course

french city lines and italian gelato shop owners have been filling my dreams.
fever dreams of food i dont want to throw up...
REM sleep battered and flowing into loud bangs of the night...
i wake up thinking our windows are drums,
and im losing my italian every night

i sat with the doors open to the streets under construction in our favorite midday panino and cappuccino spot. a guy in a very convincingly-real leather jacket sits down next to me and smiles. i mutter my usual amiable italian greeting to my amiable italian stranger, a "buongiorno," "buona sera," whichever applies to the light of the day.
a flock of american blondes fly past the open doors of the calm panino shop... their laughs and cat cries reverberate through the walls. this leathered jacket turns straight to me and smirks, as though he knows i come from the same place but feel so far from those girls.
i dip into my usual italian language curiosity and ask "come se dice... 'obnoxious?' "
"come??!" i might as well asked how you say "android" or "martian" in italian.
he turns to the panini ladies that knew me as pesto/ brie/ tomato on foccacia, and they of course give me the eyebrow and say, "what word?"
"its like... annoying, uh... rambunctious... loud?"
this guy sitting next to me lights a cigarette and leans in closer, intrigued with this foreign language i was speaking.
in italian, he says, "you study italian here in florence?"
i reply in my broken spanish-esque mix of romance languages, "no no, im still learning"
he explains between inhales that i must learn italian in school but also from the street. "you understand?"
i smile.
he orders me another caffe and hugs me when im out the door for more of darryl patrick's medici trivial pursuit. as i look him in the eye to thank him, he repeats, "street italian, kellen!"
i miss the way italian strangers pronounce my name.

ive been dreaming about that one spot by the uffitzi... on my walk home from my friends on via de neri... ponte vecchio nearby and the arno glittering. i have a falafel in my left hand and am wishing i were on a bianchi speeding down the bumpy cobblestone.