straight up: i’ve been desiring recently, lately that
emotional ‘feelings’ feeling emanating from down
deep, as described in other poems.
is there something
inauthentic about me? be honest… imagine say, i choose
to kiss her first on a slippery-dip & keep it / for
myself? to not be made lesser by language (which
at least is not the patently opaque / stupid
medium of paint)?
me for texting that sentiment of the last stanza i
often forget the point, the focus, the necessary direction
of things even rambling things. desire was at issue, or that
faux kind of pleasure that people will respond to with
two argumentative wrongs do make a
i proved this to my little sister once just to fuck with her
mind but the argument, insult, was sound. i
wonder what i said. the reminiscence is so
poignant don’t you think, monique?
in all those other poems, the things
you can read in books?