an explanation of metaphysics, or the world is a pile of hay

i called her, feeling a bit guilty, and asked if she'd like to meet for korean. without questions or qualification, she said she did. i felt relieved.

at 8:00 o'clock we met at this little five table restaurant called, "seoul food." violet was dressed more casually than i'd seen her before, wearing a sweatshirt, her fingers poking through her mittens, and her silver shoes sparkling at the bottom of her jeans. everything felt very comfortable.

"how was your weekend?" she asked.

"nothing special. emily and her friends like that karaoke game far too much. i hope it combusts. how'd everything go in new york?"

"the show went well, and keith's parents were hanging around at the after-party, which was funny and strange. oh, oscar called and left an indecipherable message saturday night. i went to the united nations, but nobody could translate. i wish you would have called at some point."

"sorry... well, i did today."

and so we shared a vegetable pancake, and each ordered the best stone pot bi bim bap in the city.

we finished eating and left the restaurant. the biting cold stung my chest, as i had on an old workshirt sans undershirt. violet looked maybe parisian, and there was a moment of heartbreaking something caught between us silence, before:

"do you have plans," she asked.

"no."

"good. i'd like to tell you about a dream."

"i know just the place for that," i said.

we hopped into my car, and i drove, and parked at the mount auburn cemetery, telling her we could sneak in.

we snuck in through an opening in the fence and admired the dead meadow, the place where time didn't matter, where possibly on the horizon was an endless train puffing to a quaint station by the ocean. the dead trees swung violently in the wind, and beyond, on the street, an old asian lady pushed a shopping cart covered with a canvas, an insane oleander amplifying the sadness of the landscape.

we sat on a bench and shared a cigarette. i asked her about her dream. she said she'd tell me but wanted to hear a ghost story first. i began by describing the eye, the pale blue eye, closed, not allowing itself to be murdered, and then the knocking, growing louder and louder, it was the heartbeat, the sound of the heart opened the eye, which was too much, and it was murdered, violenty and remorselessly, and put to rest under the floorboards. and then i told her of my awakening dreams, my dreams and not-dreams, every one a movie house dream i script in octosyllabic verse, my own manifestations of wild literary world sensualism drugged under the sun.

i asked her if she'd like a glass of wine at my apartment, where she could tell me about her dream. she agreed, and so we left.

back at the flat, i took a bottle of wine to my room.

"time to spill," i said.

"okay. well, i'll begin it, but you may be able to tell it better."

and she kissed me.

"what happens next," she asked.

i took her close and whispered.

"you're bad."

"mad, bad, and dangerous to know. now let's take that shirt off."

we undressed, and i took her in my arms. i felt strong, and i think she liked the contrast of my white arms on her black skin, and we tendered love scenes -- into the blinking stars, as the wind whipped, whipped, whipped as it's wont to do on cold february nights in cambridge.