HERE IS THE MIDDLE

OR HERE IS FURTHER THAN THE MIDDLE.

OR HERE IS NOT QUITE AT THE MIDDLE.

Ceramics

The type was neat. A good font.

"Today," it started off with - always beginning with today. It was as if (for him) these interactions were not a conversational mode of engagement, but a place for one-way divulgences, a dear diary online.

"Today," he had written, "I got to use the wheel again in ceramics, used it for the first time in a long time."

I pictured the wheel in his ceramics class, in the heartland of Midwest America. Was the wheel small and resting on a table? Or much larger, on the ground? I decided it was the kind of thing you straddled, thick and grey between your legs. After throwing a moist heap to the batter-board, you would sit on a plastic stool and bend downward as the damp, crystalline structure spun through half cupped palms. In that small town class, there would be four or five students. Sitting quietly. All spinning clay.

"It blew my mind, the wheel," he said. "I would like to show you how."

Later, I presumed, he would ready up a pencil end for incised decoration. Square sort of patterns - that was very Romanesque. He was a son of the classics, he was straight-laced schooling. Post-modernism or the post-post or the new way, was too far from these smooth clay forms, from the Romans and their Greek antecedents.

The talk between us was faded out, it was old news; it was dead. I wondered now, almost a full year past, if it was graduation season in Iowa, or if the ceramics classes were still on.

Cass

There is weight that is tangible
and then there is
another sort of weight

that clutches onto your shoulders
with pointed fingers

that sinks its elbows
to your stomach

that sits abruptly
on your face

Permanent

Suns rays, always melting my skin to the mailbox.

SHEET TALK FROM LONDON

You’re fucking all right, you are. You’re a fucking fine catch for a local sorta night. I seen you across the bar likes, and I thort, fuck, she’s lookin brilliant, ain she. I mean your hair was lookin well curly, fallin real nice down your shoulders and that. You was lookin proper nang in that tight skirt fing … Glad we ripped it off though? A million bucks, that’s what I said to my mate. This girl looks bloody fantas –

I fucking love a tight skirt. Did I mention your skirt was amazin? All taut and that, all close on your hips and your curves … I fuckin love curves, you know, summin to grab hold of, pull tight when it gets a little steamy, when you’re doing shit like –

Fuck, this beats going out with the boys. Not that I’m inta that kinda thing, I’m the sensitive one of ma mates, you know? Feelings and all that shit. I’m well glad I came back to yours now, well glad –

You got any food in that kitchen? I always need a feast when I been out on the piss. Not that I’m hammered right now, I’m feeling sober as fuck to be honest. I swear on my life, I’ve only had like two fucking cans. Anyways, you were fucking amazing just then. Spot me some cash and I’ll grab us a bite?

Untitled

5.06. Afternoon. The sun was peeking out, winking cheekily in the spaces between buildings and other objects of great height. I felt tired, very tired and a little bit drunk. That was probably just the bourbon speaking. I was sick of watching the sun cackle at another unproductive day – all it had to do was spread some rays and the quota was fulfilled. Easiest shit, really. Get low behind the buildings, big old sun, get back low down there.