Fulton

Problems are a comfort.

Dr. Buonamiglia, Fulton. Circa 1991.

Fulton, when viewed through a steamy window, might have a bus on it. The 5 or the 5R, Fulton Rapid to, Transit Center. I tried. I tried to write prose but the throbbing goose inside my gander waddles back up the flight of stairs and into the apartment. Enrico’s. Enrico has been steaming broccoli, once again, and this time it’s from the Safeway, down Fulton.

Buonamiglia, di ritorno da Safeway in vespa alla curcuma with tumeric, presumably. Circa 2003.

Fulton, beside Enrico’s; how can we understand the apartment today except as a refuge of memory? Wiry hairs round a shower drain, tabletops littered with Bingo Frenzy Crème, and the like. What else? A roof above Enrico’s elbows: merely a slender fulcrum for a full-bodied expression of it’s pathetiic. The 5R, Fulton Rapid To, Ocean Beach, Chéng jēung chìhnpàaih johwái làuh kāp lìhnjéungjé waahk chàahnjeung yàhnsih, rattles the frame round Enrico’s window above Fulton.

Buonamiglia, making his bed at Fulton and revealing little. November 2, 1989.

Fulton, it’s where the youth lament the absence of sufficient double entendre in la vie quotidian to which they are slowly becoming accustomed, up and down Fulton.

Buonamiglia landing on his bed after jumping from a telephone wire above Fulton. 2014.

Fulton, Where Enrico, the skinny hairy ecstatic Catholic dramatic that he is, would smoke his Monopolio di Statos a tavola, presiding over a confessional. Then, later, but not much later, reading John 6:15 from a tawdry, navy blue King James Version he’d later use for rolling papers, exhaling smoke or quotation “when Jesus therefore perceived that they would come and take him by force, to make him a king, he departed again into a mountain himself alone, leaving behind Fulton.”

Buonamiglia, 2010. Fulton.

Fulton, where the king shows his ass, flees, and decries the absence those who still inhabit the kingdom from which he’s fled. Absurd! Just today, my Hansel, procured a polaroid of appartamento fulton vuoto, assente, senza Enrico. Ma, dove lui? Non qui. Non li. Non c’e. There is only bugie, flung from afar. Far away from Fulton.

Fulton, sans Buonamiglia, December 14, 3:32PM PST.

Fulton? Not Fulton? And if not Fulton, where are we? Enrico’s aftertaste, I suppose. It cannot be said that his life was simple or ordinary or terrible. This here and this word there fill the vacuum, the apartment above Fulton.