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these are the notes i took in class:

it was a cold february 14th, and nothing looked like anything
tony curtis stood in prefab house on utopia and 37th
he said an artist used to live here
and he wasn't so different from the old men my parents drink coffee with at church.

is it still art if it doesn't need explaining?

i wore a glass mask that night, with a smile frozen in it.
i could tell from the way his fingers moved on guitar stings
that he was the very habit i was trying to break.
he said, "i watched the parachute jump caking in the moonlight."
he painted blue, my yellow thoughts of spring

i thought i saw you smile at me before i ran away

there's no harsh light in the wanderer
i'd read to myself, but i'm tired of my own voice

thus: he stumbled