He tells me he’s a little bit drunk.
He tells me to come to Venice.
He tells me to steal my sister’s credit card
go to JFK right now and come to Venice.
He tells me he misses me and he hates me.
He says he’s furious I’m not there,
that I go every other damn place,
why not come to Venice?
He offers free lodge.
He will pay for dinners.
He says Venice is so fantastic and boring
and did he mention he was a little bit drunk?
He says I would appreciate it.
He says I can work there. I can write. Get writing done,
which is the goal, is it not?
He says he knows he’s being forward
but he has no social graces
and that I must go if I’m going to do all this exclusive shit in my life.
He ends his last message with a guttural cry.
And I would, if I could.
But it’s so very far from here
and my pockets are empty
and I’ve still got these poems to write.
16 hours ago