-
I’m still wearing the same jacket,
found at home,
hanging on the rack,
abandoned by the owner in the moments of haste
and carelessness.
the lingering smell of stranger’s cologne finally disappeared.
The growling underworld of the city erupts into the wilds of arctic cold.
I rush out of the subway stairs into the white streets of New York
like wooly lava out of white volcano.
Snow fills my lungs,
hungry for the man-flesh,
devouring me from inside.
-
Tokens of our friendship
lingered on my belly,
like liquid pearls
and feline timidity of a wild cat.
-
Should I keep breathing?
Seems like a chore
and I never liked chores
unlike Americans
who are always running errands.
-
I choked on my spit when you left the subway cart.
Glad you didn’t see that.
It made my dream of dying in the company of strangers alarmingly real.
-
This 30-page pocket book
holds more honesty
than all my 65,000 emails
put together.
the one who knows of me
can take me -
said the notebook.
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