The moon gets fuller. Its reflection in the window is slightly less full. I have lettuce wraps and roast cauliflower for dinner with my Brooklyn roommate and we talk about her problems at work. Now she’s giving her friend in Minnesota advice on long distance online dating. Arkansas probably has the highest number of serial killers. You’re probably going to get put in some concrete sex dungeon. You’ll probably just end up making boxed mac and cheese together.
My friend from San Francisco comes up to the yurt for a few days and we sit at Circle W, the local grocery store and cafe and deli. She works, I read, our eyes sting. They’re cutting onions. In the afternoons we cool off in watering holes along the creek. We go to a Scandinavian restaurant in Hudson where it’s open mic night and a woman with a ram’s head strapped to her back plays accordion and it’s kind of hypnotic. I don’t read my poetry. Our last day in Palenville we go for a dip and there’s thunder right when we jump in and we walk back in our swimsuits in the pouring rain.
Now I’m here the city for a long weekend meditation retreat with DB. There’s a certain kind of person who drives into New York for a meditation retreat and that kind of person is me.
It’s Summer, 2014
The Tibetan guru talks for
8 hours about his dreams.
We don’t remember anything
but we learn something.
The guru has a cold! His
doctor told him to lie down,
and relax, and he said,
How can I relax like this?
In Transmitter Park a boy
and his father are flying
a kite and three nerds
are flying a drone. It’s good
to miss someone who isn’t
the main miss; it makes us
stable to see the moon. Our
shadows look like wizards.
That’s because we are wizards.
And I ate all the blueberries
because they were there.