It is an ice cream

And ginger cookies day

Like every day

When reality hits you:

You realize that what you have,

The mind you have been working on

Since you were born,

Is ill-adapted to this world.

To pay the bills you’ll have to 

Come up with a plan.

It’d better be good.

You won’t have time

Or energy

To do what you do best.

People love to look at it

Listen to it

As long as it is free.

But it never was,

The price I paid

Is high:

Seven teeth,

A broken jaw,

Eternal daddy’s girl.

Today I spent thirteen hours

In front of a computer

And I will spend many more,

All in the hope that one day

I’ll be very far from one,

Riding a horse,

Very far from you

Very far from impossibly kind people

That I’m not good at loving back.

When you ask for 11,000 dollars

You must ask yourself questions

And the answer is unsettling.

No, I’m not particularly good

Or talented.

I have a gift for anger

And buying secondhand furniture.

I’m not an altruist

Though I do suffer

For the baby pigeon

My landlord accidentally killed

This morning.

There is no merit

In growing up

Where bricks are older than Jesus

And drywall is unheard of.

These things affect you, though,

Some buildings

Are more eloquent than people,

Smooth stone benches 

More maternal than your mom.

Since school ended

All I’ve done is sleep and read.

I’m beset by loneliness

A haughty one,

A princess’s.

I consider texting people

That I know

Would sleep with me

But this restlessness isn’t worse

Than how I’d feel 

Curling up on my side of the bed.

Read a book instead.

Turn the AC on

So you can wrap yourself in blankets.

I’m reading a story

By Lorrie Moore.

She feels like

A wittier,

More talented me.

She doesn’t live far from Chicago.

Maybe I will stalk her

Until she agrees to be my friend.

But this story is a little different.

It’s about cancer

And rational suicide.

It’s reminding me

That I have nowhere to hide,

No hand to hold,

That one day

I will be a pile of agonizing flesh

And the people who love me

Will hope for a quick death

So they can go back 

To their picnic in the park

Until it’s their turn 

To inconvenience others.

I say I like men from the North.

But I should be specific.

I like Scotsmen.

Yes, it’s a frivolous post

Inspired by a TV show

I watched while having dinner.

I can’t resist

A blue-eyed man

With a mantle

And a sword.

I can picture us

Riding horses

To dramatic music.

We dismount on a beach

His beard is salty

His long hair in my face.

He says something

I don’t understand

But it’s beautiful,

With all those rolling Rs.

It’s probably something obscene,

But I’m game, warrior.

HBO people know

How to keep us

Ovulating females

Entertained.

Judging by this chocolate bar

The temperature up here

Is too hot to think clearly.

Earlier I craved water

And Chicago’s saltless pond

Seemed better than nothing.

I ran into a billion

Overweight policemen,

Defending the city

From cute NATO protesters.

Somehow,

I found a beach,

Shaded by skyscrapers.

I went into the water

Half-way,

Then lay on a towel

Reading Adrienne Rich.

A guy named Richie Rose

(But he spells it Roze)

Proposed to me,

After telling me about

His catastrophic novels.

I treated him nicely

Because getting hit on by a stranger

Is exciting
In the Midwest.

Riding a bike

Is like riding a horse.

I hug myself

With thoughts

Like this.

I am pleasantly tired,

Dripping sweat,

After riding twenty miles

Very fast

On an evening full of drunks

and horrible Cubs fans.

Hard to distinguish

Who is who.

The Viking blew me off

As Vikings do.

A drop of Cherokee blood

Won’t prevent

A destroyer

From destroying.

I heard a story about

Thoroughbreds

And women,

Tonight.

I ate my pad thai

Thinking

About my great-aunt.

She promised me

A pony,

once.

Everyone’s a fucking disappointment

Including me

But we all mean

Oh so well.

You will forgive me

 - Or not -

For chickening out on you.

Words can kill

Or throw you out of your apartment.

I didn’t know!

Now I know!

I never know things,

Unless they

Run me over

Like that Beetle

When I was nineteen.

This wiser,

Older me

Now lives in Pilsen,

Alone.

But I’m considering

A sugar glider.

Except that I don’t want

To feed him crickets.

Today I subscribed to The Paris Review

And made ice cubes shaped like apples.

I feel ten years younger 

And my new lover was born in 1984.

He’s the gentlest viking I know.