I drank a whole pot of coffee. Stop moving.

Ring around the rosy. I stayed up till 3 am

talking to an albino. I told him about this past week;

how breakdowns in little cathedrals are the new thing.

He told me "What I want?" I told him "I’ve been

trying to sell mountain bikes in Kansas." He said

"Why don't you sell mountain bikes next to a mountain."

I told him "Foreign people. Foreign places. All familiar.

Right. The foreignness of it all." He told me "That makes sense."

I told him “I found out the other day my first love's engaged.

The wedding date is set for Autumn." Pockets full of posy.

He told me "Write about how Autumn fails." "Ashes" I told him.

Love was always was always a pocket full

of Dali's Le Spectre et le Fantome reprints. Ashes to ashes.

I photographed Autumn as best I could yesterday afternoon.

We all fall. And the yellow browning red leaves remind me

of how Arizona is like a lovely neck, broken. All fall down.

My mother’s face is nowhere. But her neck everywhere.

My mother told me once in a roundabout way: "ringaroungtherosypocketsfullofposyashestoashesweallfalldown."

Meaning "What does that mean mother?" "Figure it out." she said

in a roundabout way: "Writing amounts to spending so much

film on bike tires." That is how I cast my mother's character

to this albino friend. To be honest my mother has never talked

this way. She is more of the "You see that mountain; pretty.

Wells Fargo is hiring." The next step is drinking

another pot of coffee. Because hey what better way to seem worldly

than to sip espresso with your pinky out,

shove autumn leaves in your suit jacket,

affirm that one day to photograph a bike

chained to the stair railing of a cathedral door,

to repeat: “I was a mountain in past lives.”

My albino friend told me “Gigs are exciting.

Especially on Mondays.” He plays the violin in a reggae band.

We hung up. Today is just Monday.

And I slip my hands in my pockets.