Describe your paradise, she says.
I say, A circular table near a running stream,
the sun bright on a heatless day, and I’m
sitting at the table with someone, shit,
anyone of the world’s heroes,
Woolf or Conrad or Fyodor or
Brodkey or Denis or Ernest or Tobias or
Wallace or Hempel or Munro or Bukowski or
Brautigan or Mann or Faulkner, preferably
above all else, Faulkner, whose words work
like medicine on my broken soul, and we are
seated at the circular table near the stream
as birds sing and the water glistens, and
between us a fresh pot of black coffee, and
we do nothing but speak.
Wow, she says. My paradise is being anywhere with you.
shit. i fucked it up again.
Written at 12:23 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.