Sur la côte du Texas
Entre Mobile et Galveston il y a
Un grand jardin tout plein de roses
Il contient aussi une villa
Qui est une grande rose

Une femme se promène souvent
Dans le jardin toute seule
Et quand je passe sur la route bordée de tilleuls
Nous nous regardons

Comme cette femme est mennonite
Ses rosiers et ses vêtements n'ont pas de boutons
Il en manque deux à mon veston
La dame et moi suivons presque le même rite.

I stood across the room from you today.
Grey sweater, hugging.
Aquamarine, clinging.
Jeans, scarred from mainstream mechanics.
I remember these things. From before, I mean. Was it not long ago that I touched these things tenderly? Did I not lift your shirt to kiss your belly? Didn’t I pull this same sweater from you to caress your arms?
You accused me once of not remembering the time, special in it’s time. You’re a man! It was not that long ago? You must remember!
At the time, yes, I forgot. The memories were a brief passing in my mind. Oh yes, I remember, I said; I was barely recalling. At the time, I recounted what I knew.

Now, I would love to have these times back. Should I ever find myself in this situation again, should you be there or not, I will use the very depths of my being to feel you. I shall remember what it’s like to next to you. I shall command my thoughts to focus. To not forget your hand on my neck, your head on my shoulder.

A smile! Was that glance mine? Your head down; I see you laughing.
Perhaps she is remembering a funny moment with her sister? Maybe her father has reminded her of something he said? Perhaps.
Perhaps she is remembering when we kissed. Perhaps she has seen my contemplation, she is embarrassed.  Has she recalled the time we laughed? The time we held each other; talking, without looking. Perhaps.

The last time I spent with you, all was as I wished it would be. Your mother made us supper; both were very pleasant.

The sausage we ate- it was dry. This is a real mennonite meal, said Scott. Maybe I should have agreed. I did not know what the mennonites ate.  

Zoolander, said her sister. I shall go to the movie store, boyfriend in tow. I went to go with them, but you suggested I didn’t.

The player hummed with anticipation.

The movie was mediocre. The colors were ugly. The theme, too much of this world. I laughed at some scenes, but scolded myself for doing so. Why did I laugh at something I knew so much about? Was I nervous? Surely, men are not that funny.
But, you found it amazing; I did as well.

I was finished with having this space between us. I was done. Time to move. And so, I did.
I walked to you. You were talking to a friend. I don’t think you noticed.
We’re playing your favorite, I said. She nodded and told me she was excited.

Did you look at me then? Did our eyes meet when you were excited? Your friend was there, but did she know? Was she curious?

I walked away. At least I have said something. At least one more chip is gone from this wall. Soon, another brick.

Eli tended toward mothering his louche
friends, not that he was any better. He
had a bank account that never tapped out
& his pals were so low rent no one ever
saw any money; worthless rubles & rupees
or priceless dollars & Euros. He had a
name that was as good as a meme. Eli
Simple. The leading blue-chip painter of
his 'generation', a somewhat elastic
designation.
Eli had no 'generation'. Ivan & Igor
had busted out of the confines of mere
State censorship by publishing nothing
or producing the cheapest squalor. They'd
made a fortune. [ZOZO] One way or
another either Ivan or Igor are related
to Eli, whose fortune was made on the
auction house circuit; priced as invaluable,
Eli Simple's work stood beside such esoteric
notaries as David Hockney, Francis Bacon,
& Jean Michel Basquiet; He could get any
price he asked for anything whatsoever, his
imprimatur guaranteeing a fortune. Gold-
diggers were not Eli's type. He liked women
who had nothing & could care less. That was
their charm. A female body was enough
of a chore. He'd been raised Mennonite &
always hungered for more. He'd made it to
the top on Wall Street, Fifth Avenue & Holly
wood
w/out breaking stride & w/ only minor setbacks
that seemed enormous at the time. Accused of
murdering an A-lister's father dampened his
popularity but not his budget. He was huge in
Europe & Asia; a bankable Blockbuster. In
America no one cared about Art w/ the Royal
Capital 'A'. He had never had an American
retrospective, never even been offered one.
That got Eli's goat just than & furious, he
attacked the girl. Then he called his dealer.

2/19/2015

The hurt is not enough.
the Frost crawling on the window keeps me grounded
on this sickly saccharine reality,

i'd once described a bedroom in July as an example of
the sucrose candidity of the human condition,
sticking bobby pins in my hair i'd realise in January

that the Chelsea Hotel #2 scenes were as well,
sticking to a sort of geniune artistic integrity
come to bed, hey hello to my friend afterwards

and how was it's? with little no big toothy grins
but then I would remember
sitting under elm trees at Fitzrandolph drinking a cold

coffee, because it was hot then! and it was sunny then!
and the weather conjured sweet artificial caramel flavorings-
sitting under the tree and thinking about how good life is or

was. And when I realize that the forest is as dead as it ever was
and I look at pictures of trees with leaves fully on, maybe in the
forests of Alabama or Georgia,

I realize that I haven't seen a life in a long time- but
when i burn my hand with the lighter the butane glaze on my skin
i don't really mind it that much because i think of it and quite frankly

I like to say i'm as pure as I always was but,
what burns me now: Desire desire desire
and back then the museum was talking about Roethke

and it was all I needed I didn't mind the
idle cab drivers that would call me Angel by the gates.
and my Mennonite father said I need to

repent.  I don't even want to go to
church but that is all I end up doing nowadays anyways.
Thinking about the sun, and falling over a piece of ice and seeing the

red scarlet (connotation vs denotation?) on the
white of the ice i cannot help but think that once again *the
hurt is not enough.