NYC Diary #18

MONDAY

11:34 a.m. Then one day (who knows why) I decide to open a word doc and make a table of contents for the book I’m working on.

I do this on the plane and the guy next to me is drinking a scotch. Jealous.

I’m not drinking before leaving for Europe next week.

Last book the architecture was time. This time the architecture is god.

And dick, I guess.

TUESDAY

3:24 p.m. Ordering a book is fine and then it starts to feel like nothing. Nothing important, I mean. Or like actually nothing. Who cares! The poems can be read in any order. Why am I doing this at all.

In the spring of 2015 I read at the 92Y and they asked me for a working manuscript of a poem. I remember that reading because I was in the same place I am now. Finishing. And I had grown out my hair. And I was telling Rita Dove something about my shoes. They were suede. Before I came on, in the backroom, the guy said “don’t be nervous, just enjoy it.” I’m not nervous, I said. And I wasn’t.