Sometimes I Miss the Target: John Reed

April 23, 2020, Kate Belew With John Reed (New York City)

What semi-truck, what bic lighter, what forgiveness 

has offered me. Does curiosity stay in those chairs? When we sat very close to the bottom.

I wanted to look up but saw only water, what could be called weaving, disobedience. 

Crazy 8 ball won't tell me. It tells me to ask myself. The water inside it is going away, and the ink has gone opaque. 

And how do we feel about dancers on the dashboard? Or cracked CDs on the floor? 

Everything goes to where the DJs were disassembled. 

A crumpled paper on the importance of vinyl. Sometimes I miss 

the target. Where your iris spins. 

Magnesium as a bonfire, what smoke, what color, what sun fracture. 

I don't know how to tell you this, but I read what you wrote. 

And I know that you were lying.