so she unlatches her loneliness and lets it collide into my hard and baleful body and insists on euclidean lovemaking angles and twisted positions she assesses various juxtapositions she is not prideful she is curious she gathers her clothes humbly she constantly radiates strange prayers to stars, comets, quasars, pulsars she sits straight-back drinking coffee in my kitchen I make small talk about david foster wallace sonny rollins and richard tarnas’ passion of the western mind
the police knocked on the actors door at 7 am. his girlfriend was vague and disoriented as she answered and obfuscated when asked was the actor in. once the actor appeared in a burgundy and sky-trimmed robe the story came out. a homeless man had been found dead in the park on Houston and Chrystie, wearing a coat which had been made, some years before, for the actor – whose housekeeper had given it to goodwill after finding a silverfish crawling in the lining.
do aliens pray to our cities, worshipping our factories as our highest form of musical devotion?
the clairvoyant is speaking quickly, about a woman whose name begins with e. she tells him that e. always loves him, the e. tells her this from beyond and she reaches out and touches him gently on the arm. her work is done. she pockets his silver.
is there a natural religion for aviators?
if a man has a massive heart attack in the forest, do the trees hear him? do the trees hear the straining of the final, fatal artery. do they hear the muscle in the heart wall wasting with every minute of bloodless demi-death do they hear his memories and higher cognitive functions turn to dissipated sparks in his airless, choking brain
the israeli foreign minister stepped off the helicopter and waved to an enthusiastic new york crowd through a light, greasy rain. the black umbrella hovered over his head. his wife was conspicuous by her absence. the band struck up a stirring rendition of hatikvah. the limosine was waiting and camp david was but two days away.
when we make love, she dabbles with the machines of eternity. she takes galaxies from me. she is tide and i am the edge of the world. i ask her “are the stars merely glowing stones. are they the campfires of travellers messages from the gods or merely enormous balls of hydrogen and helium in balance between nuclear forces and the sinister claw of gravity?” she says “fuck my pussy fuck my pussy fuck my pussy. fuck it!” that is her observation of the harmonies of the celestial spheres.
The department store is full of abandoned children, they know no language, they are dressed in artful rags, they clutch at stuffed toys that smell of sulphur and manganese.
we lost the vietnam war because nixon was too moral to drop mermaids on hanoi.