RIP Vito Orlando

 I have not taken the time to properly mourn the death of an old friend. One of the fallouts when you break up with someone, is that you lose a whole circle of friends. Vito was part of my support system for nearly 22 years. And then, because I felt I couldn’t revisit my friends for fear that Neil would find me, I hid out, laying low since that cataclysmic blowup that left me unhomed in September of 2018. Then the pandemic. Diana died soon after, we were unable to mourn. Shiva died durimg the pandemic. We were unable to mourn. Then Vito, I was unable to mourn. When I left Neil, I left everything behind. My known world, my friends. A death of sorts to a significant part of my life. Vito was one of those casualties of failed relationships. But every time I drive down 580 towards the Richmond Bridge, I have imaginary conversations with Vito. The one-way conversation begins at the Center Street offramp where Costco is, and ends at the Richmond toll booth. Mostly I wish him love. Life is like that, I told him. I was not invited to the memorial service. This photo was stolen from my ex’s wall.

Too hot to handle

Too hot, too hot to handle, my mind croons like a demented rockstar. Lorene's tea has slammed me sideways after an errant lapse of absence—from the cup, that is. As I threaded my way north with the precision of a Panama tailor, enroute to the writers' group, hot tea fans out over me as yet another moron in a truck bigger than his ego, (his other car is a Harley) cuts me off. And my tea spills again as I dust off and polish my invectives. You MF pussysucking cnt, I yell. And there it was, a scalding cup of tea wending its way down my front to my crotch. Lorene is laughing at me as I try to mop it up with a paper towel. Thank gawd its dark out, no one can see me grabbing my crotch. I'm laughing because I'm also holding a banger on a bun and Freud is riding shotgun in the backseat of my mind. This is too hot, too hot to handle, indeed. I love that first rush of spring when the pollen spores coat the windscreen in a chartreuse powder—like gunmetal tea. (Now, where did that come from?)With that, I shed my winter coat, though there's still a nip in the air. Epistolary bullets spraying the mind. It's an Al Capone kind of gangster evening circling Alcatraz with the perfumed air redolent with promise of yet another year to come. I wear a green millefiori heart from my childhood. Valentine's Day is almost upon us. Vito and Sinead's birthdays coming up. Vito, at 70, after chemotherapy, is also too hot to handle, but he is jubilant to be still in the game. I'm in a public place. So, should I drop the "l," is the word pubic too graphic? There's nothing like that prickly feeling when your pants are hot and sticky from spilled tea. I can't help but feel renewal with that turning of the sun, also too hot to handle. 

2/10/06 Writers' Group