i remember waiting tables, , , more bread? allow me to get you more butter while i make mine…
stacks never got too high, neither did dad’s.
“I’ll take you to Italy,” he used to promise, , , i saw how worldy
his eyes got, buttery, in the middle of an asphalt parking lot, 110 degrees,
i remember waiting to get out,
and i did, , , never came out with a degree, buttered my name
upon loan papers; who the fuck isn’t in debt? must be nice to eat bread…
what does a warm buttered end piece taste like?
in Italy? burro italiano. amore italiana. soldi,
waiting tables, , , in Italy maybe?
13 waiting to be 30 – supposedly i’m supposed to have
my shit together, , ,
i hate commas, and something they call ‘patience’,
there goes another one!
today, i buttered me a piece of bread
It was delicious: every word of it.
serving myself Italian-style
didn’t realize god was makin’ it rain
manna honey. manna n’ honey
shit’s better than butter
italians visit my store in sf
i speak of bay area manna to them
in Italian; non ho fame
i welcome myself to the world: the Present: where milk and honey flows with each buttered second:
manna burying my feet planted
eyes as dry as an end piece, wide open:
for me and for my dad.mmmmmmmmmmmm
if you can think of what has never been done before, is your story done by someone else.
you lived it. the story, ah, yes! i bet you won’t have the same outline as mine.
here’s the hypo-watered down version, cliff-notes-esque to mine:
bulacan – diwa’t dwende
1990 non-immitigration trauma – stockton…
roaches, mold, asthMAMA!
lola dolores – tita myrna
near-death lessons. came outAnthony
bye bye stockton.
sf – city college – 40’s sunset-
mission, s.assaulted, h.i.,vIP
dahdee died 2012…closer to Him
health, the best in my—
today: still frigh-10’ed-ing, not pre
one inch doing, 12 miles braving