chaos kerry i've read that book, he said. he was draped over the couch. he has long toes and always wears tevas. his feet are cleaner and finer and more elegant than mine. i have troll feet. man's search for meaning, he said. when i met him he was reading a people's history by howard zinn and it was rocking his world. he would read howard zinn and then go drink tequila and listen to joni mitchell and cry. it seemed almost like masochism to me. like maybe you don't know all the details, but don't you know what that book's gonna do to your head? your mood? like won't it just confirm all your suspicions? he tells me the world is burning and we're all fucked and when is this universal strike going to happen, what are people waiting for, and he's smiling but his voice is like acid bubbling, and when my eyes meet his i can't help but withdraw into myself a bit. am i supposed to comfort you? i want to say. and what are you doing in all this, what is your role, what are you contributing? just wondering--not that i expect you to do more than wake up every morning and try to live decently, earn a little cash so you can do it again tomorrow, like most of us. that's what i'm doing. thinking about the shit he went through over the past week i ask him if he thinks there's any order to things, i don't use the word destiny but that's kind of what i mean, like a pattern or a map or some kind of explanation for why things happen the way they do to all of us. he kind of laughs at me. he says of course not, it's all chaos. i think this idea disturbs him. but maybe it should be liberating. why does everything have to matter so much? why are we so intent on finding answers and explanations? if it's all just chaos, maybe there are fewer mistakes. less blame. less guilt. yes, the world is burning. the sidewalks sizzle. all the girls are wearing crop tops. five minutes after i step outside my neck and the small of my back are dripping with sweat. the skyline is hazy. we lie on our beds, not in them--on top of the sheets, feeling the breeze from the fan stroke our stomachs. no food or water is cold enough. 230729 what's it to you? who go blather from