baisezla
he was kerouac; he was odysessus; he was james dean, joe christmas and jesus all-in-one in a down-home & tore-up truck. for every stretch of neon he saw eons of sand. for each dilapidated snack shack there were hills like ruben's graces. it was only in this moment, in this desert, in his piece-of-shit car, alone and unabashed, that he finally felt free
each time i awaken and play peeping tom with your silhouette, it shakes me. you are more lovely than all else amalgamated; for this i am lucky, and for this, i am blessed.
(one sided phone call)
the way I see it.. it’s you and me, sugar, in black-and-white.
.. who cares when or in what place? It’s just us –
-- yes, you look like hepburn –
which? let’s go with a stunning amalgamation..
.. yes, we’re in black and white. you’re wearing a girlie lace dress.
what color? gray! jesus..
no, no, no. we’re just together. being. existing.
… no, I’m not trying to be kirkegaard, christ..
you asked, i’m telling you: this is what i see. black-and-white, like diane arbus on downers.
well, we just have that vintage, freaky, deviant love, now, don’t we?
he found the blanket in a library book, years ago, on another lonely excursion into the world.. a weathered copy of 'stuart little', to be superfluously exact. it was beige, old, stained with someone else's love. thin, intricately folded, but with care and not cold calculation. he always imagined the child it belonged to: an orphan, an urchin; a simply sad, sad youth. all that he did know was that as he drifted off to sleep (his refuge, lover and only friend) in his shitty studio apartment was that it felt like love. and he cradled it, and stroked it and cried, and cried,
you are a mile on from where i am, on a park bench, with a book. i squint and it looks like james joyce; i make no decision there (or anywhere) i cannot stop watching you. i can't tell you why. (actually, i could, but this would chuck me back into the nasty reality in which i am too banal for you and maybe you're just all in my head, just a figment of my repressed byronic side which is really not that repressed at all because, let's face it, if it was i wouldn't be making you my angel when you're really just a broad on a bench) but fuck, you are lovely. from what i can tell. all i can see are your rounded, shaking shoulders (are you cold? sobbing? involuntarily oscillating? are you a machine?) but that's all i need to see. oh, if i could move. if i could twitch. if i could shake my way up this terrace, to you, i could die happy. i say it in my head. (excuse me, miss what are you reading? i love your face i love you let's wed or join unions or holy fuck run off to libya i wouldn't mind the air strikes with my hands on your shoulders) but, i have my sandwich, you have ulysses, and i haven't got the balls
i caught a man wearing your shirt today. he was not and will never be as you were.. your barrel chest no match for his near-breasts; his arms incapable of extermination or embrace. no imaginary chalice or crown. no aura; no rage. you were adam; you touched god. you were the sistine to his scribbled bar napkin. he squeeked, you bartione-boomed. in short, he wasn't you.. and with this, i decided, i would never view your equal. if you should return, carnal king, ditch that damned shirt and drop me a line.