Nick Lore:

1.A meeting with somebody.

Par excellence. A place for us. Us being me and you, or me and me. Our meeting point is what makes the time apart something to look forwards too. Our meeting point is what gives me a reason to earn my money, if for a coffee or a sandwich. The time seems to go so quick but I wouldn’t have it another way, just one day a week that lasts four hours.
I hold your hand as we approach; I hear your weekly voice and feel the skin that only comes to those who wait.
Our meeting place is in the mind, our meeting place is in the heart, our meeting place is something to repeat.
No work of art can explain a meeting place, no painting or poster. We’ve reached our usual spot, and before you know it I’m off again till next week.
Simple, and easy. Why make my place, our place, complicated.
Vis-à-vis.

Rendezvous
2. A place arranged for this

Bo Pedersen Geel: Afternoon, March*

Afternoon, March*

Along Nott Street
dirt lays on the snow
like a five o’clock shadow.

Up the hill, detail defers to
distance: colors mute to abstract,
objects to archetypes.

An old man
(his walk the whisper
of a sauntering gait)
moves down Grand Boulevard
with a dog and stick.

I watch his arthritic
toss, the dog’s quick,
joyous leap across
the crusted median

And think, for an instant,
not of weariness,
winter, or work;
but of sweet, wet air and
mindless motion.

Across the way,
from a second-story
porch a cardinal-red shirt
whips in the wind,
shouting of color to come.

*(Looking out the 5th floor
window of Ellis Hospital
– early 90’s)


Bo Pedersen Geel

Andy Kissner: Obituary

"My name is Andy Kissner.

I drink heavily, smoke cigs, lose friends, and alienate people. I admit to the truth, I am the best at what I do.

I run and play tennis. I take great offense at anti-smoking advertisements, and find most depictions of marijuana use in the mainstream media to be grossly inaccurate.

I dabble in the art of the DJ, and occasionally self-identify as a writer.

I am a recovering something.

I die at the age of 27 due to complications arising from an utter lack of ambition. I leave behind untold scores of lovers scorned, and a whole host of bad debt.

You've never met me, and that's probably for the best. I would have fucked you over.

I was never given the chance."


http://akissner.blogspot.com