I’m sitting in my apartment alone and it’s june 2. There’s this spicy taste in my mouth because i just ate a bunch of chips with the little salsa cup they give you at mexican places in chicago. Salsa thimble. My roommate’s friend pointed at my book -- “i like eileen myles” and then “i wouldn’t say that i read though…” -- i told them “inferno” is good but everyone should read “chelsea girls” first. Even just for that chapter about taking care of jimmy schuyler in the chelsea hotel. I’m saying all of this to them as they are on their way out the door, nodding their head, their unfamiliar appearance escaping behind the wooden frame. The physicality of “ok ok, see ya.” I’m listening to some bootleg elliott smith full album on youtube, maybe they can’t even hear me. It feels like such a summer activity -- to listen to elliott smith and acoustic guitar plucking, i’m wearing a tank top and thinking, eating the salsa that makes my tongue feel frenzied at the tip, i just put a kathy acker book on hold at the library that they don’t have at the st. louis library. Maybe i’ve read a different kathy acker book every summer for the past four years.