If lust dies no one will miss the funeral. Even those Yale students will at times skip class. A brain is like a stone to be thrown across a lake. When I was younger I wouldn’t believe it.

You’re a pretty girl and your psychoanalysis is strong. When I see photographs of you I want to handcuff Daguerre. Our two pasts together make one labyrinthine past with a knee that bothers it.

You took a trip to Gary for the whole weekend. It’s as if I were in Medina and you in Tehran. The highway is a long desert and its illusions aren’t fun. I read Dostoevsky’s letters to his brother and become more and more fantastic. A Ghazal in this state is a Popsicle in July.


My body is nothing new. My thoughts are borrowed from my cat when we are alone. My cat’s name is Khlebnikov but we keep that part secret.

There is a violence that we always forget and one that we usually remember. Every pain in Abraham’s side is now a city. That is why I avoid Manhattan.

For me the past is a basketball, I don’t understand the physics of it. I just like to watch. And the way back home becomes clear and impossible, broken with jump shots that might be canyons.

Normally we write about the love being wrong or lost, which makes it stronger. Don’t you wish that the birds could feel this way? Then the birds and I would have something to talk about.


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