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                                                                              upon returning to brooklyn

i could live in a chinese facsimile of jackson hole. pussy, recommendation,
pussy, recommendation
, i'd repeat in my head to no one
in particular, because courtesy was busy flashing elsewhere
for someone else. i missed it, i forgot to record it, i am not remotely
visible from space, little guy privileging disappearance, opinions
at the ready. a penis is not the site of fertility, despite the assurances
of these  well-paid, concretizing, flirtatious freaks.
dim styles apprehended by sleepy conductrix.
in our rehabilitations of the space, when we reach the layers
of overlapping paint, each bearing the pretensions of a scab of time,
that puta hot white enemy, keep scraping. do not valorize, not ever,
the merely old.
this is what the shirtless guy told me after he had finished
deriving his dose of post-coital pleasure from his "insufficient funds"
ATM receipt in my deli. but what about the tables of brooklyn?
of what the brick walls, exposed as they are? the re-purposing of purpose
that goes on every day in the itself valorized, old, and re-purposed navy yard?
of what the surfaces, the surfaces, the surfaces, continuing briskly
in their new assignations holding food and forearms, escaping the fire
and dirt fate of their kin? mijo, he said, licking and then swallowing
his receipt, they are simulated to appear old. soaked and dragged
and burned, choked and drowned until they bear the ersatz scars
of a time that never penetrated them. so they do not sprinkle
the jibblets. or hold the energy of those who were desperate to escape,
happy to be there, who sang the song of the pilsner, staring into their
multicolored surfaces. which is what makes them beautiful, if you want
to talk about borders. what's interesting or urgent or exhausting
about it, he went on, is not that
the majority of striving owners hoping
to be the drain down which the young will gleefully pour their separate
checks are doing this, but why it is they are doing it. i know what you're
thinking, he added. you're thinking i am that. and you are.
drowned and painted, post-coital pretentious re-imagining light
and forearms. murderous in your bed. a slug on the phallus. a wall
through the storm.
Posted 09/05/13
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