I told him that 

Honky Tonk might smell like meat.

When I pass it on my bike

(The black-and-pink one

He gave to me

When mine got stolen)

I see signs

That say

"We loooove pork!"

He said it wouldn’t.

It did.

We talked about horses

And cowboys.

Later he took me to his friend’s house

Where a bunch of kinksters

Were getting to know each other

Over wine.

They were the most lovable creatures

I’ve ever met,

Which I didn’t expect.

When people feel accepted

For what they are

There is no need for anxiety

Or games.

I’m holding a picture

Ahmad took of me

On my birthday.

It’s me from behind.

I know that ungraceful back

Only from home tapes,

A clumsy twelve-year-old wearing

Long gloves 

And my grandmother’s dress,

Playing the hostess

And failing.

My schoolmates are

Wearing costumes,

They move their eyes

Nervously,

They stuff their mouths

With bread,

Impatient to go home.

When nobody’s around

I feel relieved,

I have some peace at last,

And time,

So much time!

To do all those wonderful things

I’ve always wanted to do.

But all I do

is sleep,

Eat,

Check my e-mail.

For my birthday

I received three bottles

Of red wine,

A basil plant,

And I will buy myself a horse.

I’m dreaming of a silver roan

Tennessee Walker.

We’ll have similar diets

And needs,

Safety,

Comfort,

Fun.

Who needs a man

When you’re riding 1000 pounds

Of Warmth and strength?

I certainly don’t.

I might be giving up sex

Entirely.

The thing itself is never as good

As you remember it to be,

Your body a baby-making machine.

I’ll trade having a boring man

Panting

Above me

In my freshly laundered sheets

For some serious galloping

In the wind.

When I feel these surges

I should sit down and write.

Instead I lie on pillows

And watch TV

Because it’s easier

Than riding the wave of clarity.

I spent the morning

Watching three-year-olds

Learn Spanish.

They looked at me

With big speckled eyes.

One of them hugged me,

He’d never seen me before

But he was my friend.

It was almost too much to bear.

At 5 I turned 33,

It’s already the 23rd

In Rome.

I cried in the shower,

It doesn’t count

When you’re already wet.

At sunset
Chicago was

Blessed

With a Roman breeze.

I can’t be on Twitter.

I’d be reading Matthew’s tweets

More often than now.

Once a month is more than enough,

When doing so confirms

What I suspected:

He loves Kendra

More than he ever loved me.

Or maybe it’s just different.

But their love is so disturbingly public

It turns you into a voyeur,

A cat lady sans cat,

Watching mediocre porn.

Was there ever a time

When I truly felt ecstatic about someone?

Anxiety isn’t love.

I went on Facebook

And unfriended Chris.

I needed some internet hygiene.

At night I often dream

Of camaraderie

Rather than sex.

Sam reads my words

From time to time

(Hello, ex-friend)

I know this

Because he lives in his studio

Now

And that studio was

Very briefly

Mine too.

I had labelled it 

On StatCounter.

If I met him

He would squint

And turn away,

That’s why

I never go to Logan square.

My old bike waits for me

There, forlorn.

I’ll never know

If he wants to read about himself

(Here, you’re welcome)

Or if he has regrets.

It doesn’t matter.

I am braiding my hair,

Waiting for somebody

To sweep me off my feet.

Everything else

Means nothing.

Today I taught my last 

Italian class of the season.

In my locker I found the novel

I thought I had lost.

My Margaret Atwood,

The one with a note from my father

Scribbled on the first page.

I had an identical copy in my bag

Because I’m used to losing

And replacing things,

A brief mourning

Followed by action.

I am getting better and better

At this.

I got home,

Locked my bike,

Slipped on the sidewalk.

My right ankle twisted and burning,

Blood on my left foot.

It’s fine,

This body is frail,

Soon thirty-tree,

Accepting defeat.

Driving a car

In order to ride a horse

Is one of those things

That don’t make any sense at all,

But fighting them is futile.

It’s like going to see Prometheus

And complaining that the dialogue is dumb

And the actress is not Sigourney Weaver.

I suspect they just cast the woman

Who had the best tummy.

Tummy is such a terrible word,

Only slightly more bearable than yummy.

Forgive me for using it.

Driving a car makes me crazy

With anxiety,

I took the edge off

With an alcoholic drink

I call The Vegan Cowgirl.

My vocabulary suffered.

Summer has its summer smells

In Chicago,

But they’re all the wrong ones.

Yesterday I went to the Italian Cultural Institute

To hear an Italian journalist speak

About his coast-to-coast train trip.

I wanted to tell him

That I’m about to do something

Similar.

Except I won’t have a five-person crew

And the budget of a tv production.

I will be alone with my horse.

But I’m shy,

And I felt weird:

I was surrounded by loud Italians

Peeking at my notebook,

Eating meaty pizza.

I rode my bike back home

And made 

Tomato-garlic-basil pasta.

Blues

You gotta hold on to your anger,

Hold on to your anger,

Baby.

You gotta hold on to your anger,

Tie it to your finger,

Baby.

‘Cause if you ever forget,

He’ll try to slit your throat,

He’ll poison all your plants, 

Relatives and goats,

And when he’s wearing your toes,

As a crown on his head,

And when when he’s fucked your best friend,

Your poodle and your horse,

And he’s sent Planet X,

On a collision path with Earth,

Don’t call me,

Don’t call me,

Don’t call me,

Don’t call me.

Unless

You wanna play video games.

I am thirsty.

I am writing this

Before drinking

Because it will feel

That much better

When I finally do.

It is a warm night.

I stopped in every Pilsen artsy store

Where I munched on salty things

And bought white gloves

And maps of Italy,

Oklahoma,

The United States of America.

Really,

I was looking at people

While pretending to need

A cowboy hat.

A guy talked to me

But I gave him a hard look.

I’m like a horse who knows

He is a prey.

My survival instinct kicks in

And I’m back to my teenage self,

Aloof.

The first signs of my period.

Very welcome,

This month.

Oddly enough,

As soon as I relax,

I imagine myself

Pregnant,

Walking on grass.

There are animals

Around me

Enjoying the sun,

And everybody’s hair is red.

Maybe I’m giving myself a break,

Making space for things

That might be nice.

I don’t really know,

I never like anything long enough,

Not even fantasies.

Did you know

That not everybody

Feels like they’re responsible

For earthquakes,

Wars,

And the slow death of the sun?

Some people

Are quite content,

They draft their five-year plan

Sipping a latte at Starbucks.

It’s nothing new,

I love some drama.

To satisfy that urge

I should probably 

Join guerrillas in a jungle,

Any jungle,

Fighting random evil,

Falling in love with bearded

Heroes,

Wrapping beans and rice

In a tortilla while I sing

My songs of hope and sorrow.

I wouldn’t last long,

I’m too soft.

I suspect

I’m all talk.

The bourgeois version of 

This noble destruction

Is pursuing unworthy boys

And romantic dreams

Of solitary adventures,

My horse and me.

Maybe a harmonica!

Giving up comfort

And support

And honest smiles.

Because at least

I will have something

To write

About.

An hour ago I was just having a bad day.

You know,

The heartless

Trivialities

Of life,

Making my breathing

Shallow.

But thirty minutes ago

I was informed I had been fooled again.

What changes is never the core.

Only the color of leaves,

The name of a city,

The length of my hair or his.

Since he gives tattoos now

I should at least 

Ask him a last favor.

Carve this reminder

On the wrist of the one who

Perpetually unlearns:
“Valentina,

Don’t answer your phone

Don’t open your door

Or I’ll find a way to destroy you.
C."

I am all out of love

 - Or rather -

I’m past deceiving myself

Into thinking

That my desire is love.

I’ll stop using that word,

I’ll leave it to more generous souls.

What am I but a beast

Than needs food,

Shelter,

Rest and attentions?

I got a tan

Playing with horses 

Yesterday.

I navigate smiles

And humility

Plotting for survival.

Beyond mere existence,

Of course.

I’m used to comfort,

Organic groceries,

A room of my own,

Varied entertainment.

I will fight for it

But not too hard.

If you don’t like me

I might just let myself die

Here, painlessly.

At least I have this,

My clean slate.

A clear goal,

One hundred words

And a sense of accomplishment.

Later I will do my laundry,

Smell the cheap soap.

Mexican TV in the background.

There are Important Things To Do,

Instead I heat some soup

And think about 

Sam,

Chris,

Eric,

Jim,

Adrian,

John,

Bruno, 

Jacques,

Tom, 

Shane,

Matthew,

Samuel,

Andrea,

Ramon,

Christoffer,

Liborio,

Lucio,

Emanuele,

Valerio,

Federico.

Each had something to teach

But their lessons mostly

cancel each other out,

Unless we’re good at paradoxes

And embody the Tao

Instead of just digging the idea

Like an aging hippie.