Al tells me “Cut out the death stuff, write about
what keeps you going. what you love, what you
live for,”OK, how about mustafa lentils (Lebanese),
black pantyhose, nipples like two clitori on the
tips of my breasts, blonde vanilla icecream hair
down my back, Southwest French rolling hills countryside,
the view of Manhattan from Brooklyn Heights, an
e-mail from Kostelanetz about The Invisible Man, a
call from my cousin Judy from Arizonza, my huge bed
in my noiseless room with just a touch of cold air sneaking
in between the edges of the storm windows, my woman's
black nylon legs in the bed with me as we vibrate
each other into ecstasy, the waterfall on the river
at the bottom of the backyard, sleep, cold tea, a rice-
krispies chocolate bar for breakfast, this poem appearing
in some little magazine as exotic as Bolivian chirimoya
icecream.