Ditch all tepid sympathy - "poor didda thing” won’t do.
Empathy which
shocks. That’s better. Find whatever cracks the glass
to flood you with the view. Break the locks. Wed spirit to
unwitting letter.
Bear the brunts. Here's the touch one wants. Lavish days in
languor: bend
your being toward vestigial pulses of its genesis. Settle
only for what would
intolerably anger you if you did not receive it. Listen to
the clangor,
love whatever just has flown into the hangar: be deceived by
thieves, why not.
(They’re almost always hot.) Jot and doodle, don’t conclude or
if you’d like,
conclude. Then let us collude in Tompkins Square and see
where
there might be a perfect bench along a walkway’s curb to sit
on
to eat lunch. (I’ll bring the sugar-free Hawaiian punch.) Let’s
spend our time defining that egregiously annoying word
which makes me murderously grumpy, which despite the lumps I’ve
given it
from all the looting and the plundering I’ve tortured it with
for so many years
will not admit a single certainty about itself. Let’s grab it
by the ears.
Threaten it, if it will not succumb, with the “or else” of
its worst fears, its hell:
evisceration of its spell. Find out if it’s true. This “hunch” – this fucking “hunch” –
what is a goddamned hunch? – I can’t stop having about you.
.
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