12.27.2009

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Ay, today my shoulder was accidentally pressed to
a stranger's, & I felt like Dr. Jekyll for a moment,
without Mr. Hyde having a mutual satisfaction,
& this is a completely new point-of-view, like a
graphic novel, or directors using artistic licenses
to re-arrange original ideas. Secret carvings
are like bubbles & fizz; lectures on organic
solidarity. Caress me, as if you loved my heart
more than anything, like how the Humpback of
Notre Dame wanted to be loved by a beautiful
woman, when a grasshopper would have loved
him all the same. This goes beyond drama, beyond
novelization, beyond fiction, non-fiction, a mighty
physical power: this is the plowing of instinct &
the ultimate instinct to want to be squeezed by
graceful arms, without there being razors in the
eyes, without an unpredictable burning, like
California wildfires, like a foolish clown
screaming at you just by looks alone. Where is
my shaving stick? Where is my nourishing canvas?
A soul-picture is colored & humored by suggestion—
autoeroticism avoiding actuality, recessing to the
fricassé-like freedom of being tossed about
your language, my heart bleeds to feel your
touch, as if it were a Scarlet Letter, a pearl in
your shell, melted & outpouring into the stirring
of the pavilion of my irreversibly reflective skull.
The shine is eager. Shake me up to loosen the
remaining ingredients. Please do not say no to me.




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