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Monday, April 9, 2018


Fiction is impossible. The absurd 
has no more meaning. Symbols do not 
exist. They are made of concrete and thus
too heavy for paper. Imps are also not

permitted. Any self not the self is 
not permitted as someone might think it
them. Solipsism is a strangling boutique. 

Buy the scarf, never thrift.


You cannot wear the other. 
Not even her scent.


Why have I a problem with this?
I blame my first masks. The veil. Tutu, too. 

Now that we can surgically reinvent every 
mole, any attempt to broaden one’s interiority  
is suspect, and all one's aphorisms become 

slurs. By “one” I have no idea who 

I mean to talk about. I am fine. Or 
we are fistsful of anger denying 
a palm that wants open pleasure


I fear there shall be no more clasping

1 comment:

Radish King said...

I came back to your poem this morning thinking about masks and perfume. This poem feels so immediate to me so urgent. Thank you.