i didn’t see her face. she was thin. she had a pretty face and a big nose. i thought about them fucking. he with his brown skin and cerebral voice. she with her thin arms
and smooth belly. she is going to live in maui. she wants to go back to school in ohau. i didn’t like him and i liked her. i liked his voice at times. other times his face annoyed me. it was too shiny and healthy. he was too supportive and followed up with advice. he should have been quiet and not listened. she was assertive. she should have been pushy. they were inoffensive. her nose reminded me of a fourteen year old  tennis player’s nose and her father’s nose who intently observed her compete. my ex likes to make fun of me in front of our daughter. i write the alimony check in front of them and don’t say anything demeaning. sometimes, i write the check for before my ex and daughter arrive. i should use an envelope.  there is nothing and then there is what’s next. i want to ask ayla a question so that she looks me in the eye. i like her. i like you i should say, but she would take it the wrong way. she has pride. she’s in her early twenties. she wanted to do ballet, but now does modern dance. she has perfect posture and fucked up feet. i think about unfolding them late into the night. i want to help her like i want to help everyone i see. i want to talk to them and to teach them and learn from them and not to charge them money like socrates. they killed socrates because he didn’t want money. he wanted to remove barriers. jesus was like socrates. he didn’t want money. he wanted equality like love wants equality. socrates wanted unity and understanding, not separation and custom or maybe they unconsciously wanted chaos. the anarchists were thought of as wanting chaos but they wanted a social situation where folk treated each other kindly. who are these bodies who want to keep us separated: the snobby teachers hate the snobby lawyers; the snobby doctors hate the snobby underpaid teachers. the petty high school teacher and the social worker especially takes the moral high ground. writers, poets, and artists are vain and they like to complain. they are never assassinated because they want to be admired. they are in love with the shiny jackets of their books, the editors that shape their novels, the publisher or gallery owner with their prestige and business acumen. they starve but they are afraid of death, it is their fear of being forgotten that makes them write so beautifully.