“Define loneliness? / Yes. / It’s what we can’t do for each other.” Claudia Rankine
please show me anywhere
machines are pouring
out over plato’s erosion
reiterating: read this
dead dubious pink ruin
my television show
oh, pungent amphitheater!
what is poetry for? oh
pungent amphitheater
poetry for what? oh, pungent
amphitheater what a question
machines pound the ground
through string
you never notice
how all this reads across
the dubious
pink landscape
ruined by television
reiterating: read this
with my dearest erosion
show this pungent amphitheater
what poetry is for, oh
pungent amphitheater
poetry is for christmas
the ear has a clicking diario ticchettio anche io dov’è
pericolosi ho un diario apri the ela è la oggetti busta anch’io dov’è
pericolosi ho un diary too where lo dangerous the envelope see
la busta vedo io sono mia scatola il regalo perfetto apri la
busta è è è è è è è è è mia scatola apri la tastiera tastiera la
tastiera la busta è la oggetti anch’ io dov’è la busta
vedo la busta è la oggetti anch’io dov’è pericolosi ho un diario
ticchetti anch’io dov’è pericolosi ho un diario ticchettio the
gift objects i am dangerous the shape of the envelope too whistles like
a perfect gift i am dangerous as a gi
3. Lot of dreams tonight. I curse myself for not waking to sketch them along the way. But last among them:
On the streets of NYC, with Andrew as sort of assistant, photographing the street. Lots of people. Smiles but also secret shooting of the homeless and glamorous at perfect unobserved rest. Anyway, at some vague point we encounter a group of 8 to 10 girls aged 16 to 22 (I intuitively know/guess) and they start to follow us. Flirting at the same time annoying and gadflying. We welcome the attention, the company, the shared energy, but they are a distraction, clogging the sidewalk as we try to navigate through without too much negative juju coming our psychic way.
Andy and I stop at some point to deal with an equipment issue and the sirens swarm, smoking, making my lens change more difficult than it needs to be. One of them, a young brunette all soft lines, most devious bodied, the youngest, most supple bodied, stands in front of me. Me, two feet from her burning Camel Light. The sweet smoke passing between us without burning my eyes. She won’t stop talking; so much more than talking: sexualizing forth, weaponizing, poking me with her untouchable womaness. Clouds me. And I’m trying to change that god damned lens, not let any of her smoke into the camera body. Fuddling with lens caps.
An ash, like a perfect snowflake (it had been snowing now IRL for two days), falls from her cigarette to her dimpled chin and, as if that ash were a universally understood cue, I kiss her lips with such quick aggression that she takes a step back. Unbalanced/shocked. Gives me a moment of much-needed distance.
The hip girls all snicker and chat, one says something to no one: “Oh my god, she’s only 15.” But no harm done. I lock in the wide angle lens and we all move on.
