the night sky with its little gift of stars, how when i get to my small universe in brooklyn my lungs take in air like an addict, the way flynn, my dog, scratches my arm to be let under the covers, film that makes you throw up in the movie house sink it is that upsetting, talking until the sun makes its way into the sky again and our voices are hoarse because all we have done is talk, the night after our voices went hoarse when all there is left to do is rub our bodies together like sticks.
an end to this busy loneliness, someone whose heart i can listen to from six to six, those hours when i am not sitting at the silly little cube or getting ready to sit there. someone who doesn't care whether jt leroy is a girl or a boy and knows how much truth versus fiction belongs in a memoir, who will listen to my dog barking and know there is a language there, who will walk me to the stars as if the sky was a parking lot outside some big american store.
leonard cohen, the beatles, natalie merchant, beth orton, cowboy junkies, hildegaard, coldplay, belle and sebastian, simon and garfunkle, a few boys and girls i am friends with, velvet underground, peter paul and mary, krishna das, kings of convenience, pj harvey
the ice storm, happiness, buffalo 66, daytrippers welcome to the dollhouse, ghost world, my life without me, noise, shortcuts, american beauty, jesus' son, so many others
not for me
raymond carver's anything, shopgirl, purple america, best american poetry and short story anthologies, the velveteen rabbit
Clifford the Big Red Dog, The Little Prince, Gregor from Metamorphosis, everyone who voted against Bush