MISS YOUR ROAST BEEF HEART w4m / 39 / Dean Street, Brooklyn
The night we met I had two things in mind: a ride home and my finger in your waxy ear. Now they are tearing down that old bar and it makes me feel like yellow paper. I miss your roast beef heart, Dally.
Before we had eleven kids, before we moved to the sticks like miniature Indian schoolgirls huddling against a sandstorm in bright red saris, time was everywhere, heavy as a cast iron bath, toxic as a round of Telephone Operator. You tell me we are broke. We are broke like that apartment on Clinton that had swastikas in the tiles because it was built before the Nazis and evil even existed! You tell me we are old. We are old like diamonds, Dally. Fabulous, shining karaoke diamonds. Joey B sold the diner. Bonnie Blanche and Angie are ghosts for the west. But has the line gone gone? Black black? NO. It is GOOD LUCK to have kids with head lice, to let someone’s else lunch stink the F train. Prospect Park will come and go over THEIR heads. Eighty-eight years ago my great grandfather’s band played Concert Grove. His young son stood to the side, tapping one foot while my grandmother, his wife-to-be, as just a girl, danced under the pavilion. THEY NEVER MET. But, Dally, we did. I can assure you, eighteen children on my breasts, we did. You want to know where the money for babysitters is going to come from? I don’t know! You want a vasectomy? Fine! But come back to bed, Dally. Don’t miss me. True love always. Blue, blue, blue forever. Look up from your droid. I swear I’d make the whole thing up for you.
via Samantha Hunt
Actual Response to the Ad:
Dear Matterhorn
Your dally etude gets to me. How is it your posterity multiplies in the ruins? In how many Bensonhurst back lots or Western Montana reclamation sites does a cast iron tub fill with wreckage and make soil? Lord knows we get our hands loamy with the matter.
I stayed as long as I could reads the epitaph, but the body squirms. Across this epistemological body I drove your brother’s beater west and time exchanged it for a bonnie camilla and reset the compass rose. Now at this window with the valley’s shuddering fever within me, the crummy leaves have prettied the hew of wet life.
I wish most there were a microphone and a love in the air. The one that makes me laugh she said, and threw her arms around my neck. Today I commit to writing your Louderhorn in a what-can-it-hurt aching to be nearer you and blue and blue and blue and blue.
I have as many knees as you have breasts.
Bb
