For April 13, 2009

    It has been a long time since I've last spoken to you; at last it has decided to fall into this one avenue,
when I have felt close to my skin a sun cooling, round and fat and careless as a quarter for a charitable cause, whose dilation has
perfumed your voice with a languished expression, when spent, when near to set off; the placement of the softly glowing sconce,
held before me, the row homes squeezing into my periphery, the patchwork of your evanescent smiles, premonish the smell of a very old lady
with aging cats will brush against me; concurrently I notice how much the way I came in stretches if a memorable sun sets,
or, if I've run into you serendipitously and I am put on guard, peering out from behind my face
to watch your dimples or crows feet if they might give away any design behind your appearance, wonder if it's worth it
that I might have noticed "had you known ahead of time you would have been elsewhere, out of focus"
disclaimed by a thin voice (I pick it out amongst the choir of faces you've breathed life into
with your enchantingly contemptuous and circumlocutory devotion--through the days in which you have turned
everything into disproportionate shadows, through I who has, it turns out, given in to what are only shadows
--which means that I owe you one) as obsequiously as I remember my own soul incessantly flatter
to pacify my thirst for the sweet juices I imagined ran from the attentiveness and the lip gloss of my first real girlfriend
as when I suspected her eyes were directly behind me: I would then breath on my own skin
to cleanse the palate; I wanted to quaff and taste undisputed her unguent.
So in that case nothing disappears into a westerly distance. The cup is still here; I am still in the act.
It has hung above me without ever changing while it has changed me; I've dreamt that you do understand;
and I thought to denounce it even when, like a grove wrought with budding wisteria
a child might uncover while exploring the woods around ones home that I so often romanticize about, about how the child found it to be
is really substantive, smelling more godly than any holy book, a trace of your unctuous odor would rile me to the point of tossing off in public bathrooms even as I remember out of a boyish need for justification imagining Heathcliff doing; but it was still more pure than the
discovery and exploitation of those golden spots I had only seen through reproductions and abstracted playboy bodies where the sun has always lead us that I was soon to undertake.
    And all along your cunt smelled; it was the first time I smelled that part of a woman; while
your face has changed and your voice has deepened and hair has grown over your cunt I wonder if you still smell, or if
your mother had talked to you about that, or you had learned from your friends in high school, or if Hilary, or Brittany, had made
you feel less like a girl for it; in turn I will take little bits and pieces off of Brad and Brando to taste to see manliness and emulate;
but you I imagined were always proper, you would not have discussed what Heathcliff might be doing in your honor;
I am, for other motives, the same; yet again an angel bringing silence, impotent in affecting others to this silence as are describing, vague improbable memories to
elucidate an aspect in a painting that is without this aid nonexistent, freezes my lips and crystallizes the present moment into
a moment I must undergo alone; the small talk it seems you will throw me until one finally catches hold evidences that you exist
in a different world superimposed over mine, as if I am to be for you, your nepenthe; I cannot tell you if
it would mean anything if you were guilty of the same thing as I: live entirely for a day that might come
when it shall grow worn and lose all its intricacies which you've watched and admired in their fading; they take leave on their own accord;
you will be left with finitude as the last remaining ray of light to show you the way; before the sun goes down I might still be led to
a woman beautified through expectancy, milk leaking, whose pudgy thighs are open to me, whose heat
overcomes me as if a starved pack of dogs.