Will you buy me a Cartier love bracelet? Pls?
The ones that resemble the chastity neck piece? For you, sweetheart, the world.
I’ll also get you a matching Cartier Tank or Santos watch, depending on which you think is neater.
I didn’t know I could miss you so damn much. The thrill and trill upon hearing your voice; cacophonous in crowded city centres; a warm, wet whisper in wastelands and wharfs. The way it was so easy to know what you were thinking, the way you telegraphed yourself, singingly, a sound unique to you, like washing waves and flightless bird calls. You always hold hope for me, bathing over me expectantly and yet somehow so languidly too, soaked in a concoction of vivid colours unknown even to an artist who paints in saturation — to which I blame air pollution — and you are, for the length of time I craved you most and more, the most constant of companions. I didn’t know I could miss you so damn much: I’ve never known myself to.
I have loved tenderly
some very sweet lovers
without them knowing
anything about me.
I wove spiderwebs from this
and have fallen prey to my own creations.
All feelings that gather you up and lift you are pure. If they twist and tear at your being, they are not. All tenderness you may feel for your childhood is good. Every emotion that makes more of you than you have ever been, even in your best hours, is good. Every intensification is good, if it seizes you entire and is not an intoxication or delusion, but a joy you can see into, clear to the bottom. Do you understand what I mean?
I was a contender once, you know? Wrote stories that got blue ribboned and given 30 notes. I used ta be somebody.
Bokeh, from the Japanese word boke-aji:
the aesthetic quality of blur;
polygonal spheres of out-of-focus points of light.
I was smiling on the I-80 westbound
scenic overlook outside Allamuchy, NJ
as the golden almost orange purple sun-mixed starlight
had me looking more beautiful
than I was.
Selective focus: distance from the subject,
and then I am clearer than sunshimmer
through blackberry bushes.
My body, vibrant, rained on by soft geometric bulbs—
head tilted back slightly, jawbone jutted forward.
Your camera lens had me looking
freer than I was.
The interstate: dark blue,
red to redder gradients of light.
But there was a certain slowness in the air between the taillights
and headlights and the break to blacktop from highway everyone
mistakes for exit 19 and veers back into
In a flash, I become a thumbnail on a screen,
the snow had it looking colder than it was—
or maybe it was the holes in my sweater that let through
fiery threads, my left arm arched over,
hand balled in a fist, and a sunshined-chalk outline around
my still-living body.