Mayday, 2000

Every attempt at home improvement leaves some indelible scar. Every time I try to improve myself some bruise reflecting that arduous process is picked up, staying with me forever.

Let me give a pertinent example, an analogy. The other day I was putting up a mirror in my living room. I'd bought the mirror ages ago it seems, and had all the tools and equipment to install it. I was finally getting around to it. Funny how long it can take to get the gumption to do these things.

In the course of the installation, I had:

• Scratched the coffee table
• Dripped solder flux on the floor
• Soiled the kitchen hand towel
• Put a mild gouge into white plaster
• Made two false nail holes
• Drawn a level pencil line across the wall

Then she showed up, wearing her ultraviolet dress. The black and white motif of my modern apartment was quickly transformed into a cool shimmering blue. Seeing our reflection in the mirror I knew we wouldn't stay in that mirror long. We converted ourselves from a seated sunset couple drinking tea to a sleepy tangle of flesh and arms discerning the room's metamorphosis as the sun disappeared, serene, relaxed, passion-spent:

• Mary's lips falling relentlessly toward mine
• Her shoe scuffing the wall as she's carried upstairs
• cd changer changing, changing
• A palm print
• Floating floating
• An amorous sob
• Tension and longing
• Random firings drifting us towards dream

I remember the first time. Always reliving the first time. Mary sleeping, Mary dreaming. Mary's head resting heavily against my eternally tattooed, well-beating heart.