Stamina Drum & Bass, 1/1/25

Stamina Drum & Bass, 1/1/25

Whenever I wake up in San Francisco I get to thinking about all the places I ought to be, or where promised to be by now, how everywhere I’ve ever lived fits only loosely, or too tight. I like to pretend that all of these open days and cities would be better and easier with Jack still around, and his kimchi and humor too, if only because melancholy is easy for me, a well-tread path. Maybe enough psychedelics will unwind the knot in my body that makes me limerent, makes me keep writing trite final couplets and bringing up the divine comedy at parties. Maybe a strong cup of coffee will make me a “real” fag, make me fear god, make me into one of my wiser friends, or maybe Frank O’Hara, if I’ve been good. I bet field mice feel bigger than me. I bet street pigeons are better-fed. I bet there’s no right way to dance to drum and bass, you just have to look stupid, make fun, and that’s the point. How strange and awesome it is to be alive, to move through all our inelegant and arhythmic habits and desires, or the errant, animal wanderings of our greedy hands and lame feet. I think it’s all more wonderful and constant than the sun rising, and at least half as good as Aubrey standing inches from me to point out the constellations. Or maybe it’s just that Elizabeth is making Borscht now, so all my wimpish self-pities have been supplanted by the smell of soup cooking. All I need to put some space between me and the little magics of green grasses, wishy-washy regrets, and/or sorry fantasies is a profound spoonful of sour cream, but a hot pad for my neck and a cup of tea would help too, and maybe a glance at last night’s photos. I wish all my poetry were one big letter, a love letter maybe, so I could end every last one with an I Miss You Dearly and a Please Write Soon.