Friday, October 3, 2008


On having just seen “Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist”

As if it had to shovel up a brand new sexy teenhood –
yet again, again – for its own chronic delectation –
blasted ever-prematurely from the pod – the Zeitgeist
feeds and feeds upon each of its endlessly emerging
tenderest selves: an Ouroboros whose infinity is form:
a solipsistic circularity of swallowing each swift velleity:
the whim of tight or baggy pants; the shaved or bearded

face; the wrap of leather, lace; the taste for hiphop homie
belted jeans which start below the butt-cheeks; artfully
messed hair bespeaking “bed” – which to the fifteen-
year-old fantasizing head says: “Can’t stop having sex”
the bright expected leaping deliquescing fleetness
of the “chic” – the squeak of dying fashion and fascistic
blind adherence to the new – the scintillating hot hormonal

stew it heats and stirs up, serves and eats, regurgitates:
oh I am absolutely true to my sweet Ouroboros:
my East Village pet – I look around and see three decades
of my own reflection in its ever-curling and revolving
festival of sex: you see that brief divinity of boy-man
speeding like a blur and getting swallowed by the sea
of Seventh Street and Avenue B? That was me.


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