I could throw such a party. The
silken memoir of a slow week
with full lips such as awesome
and party and anniversary and
maybe even French. I need to
get my arms around a number
(my arms?). We left the issue kids
with a doctor of stupid words thinking
I’m ugly and this is really no good;
this unloving of our bodies that lasts
so much longer than usual. But then
the stalking dogs, the ones who’ve
lived in ambiguity. But always.
Behind the door without a number.
But then the stalking dogs and a frenzy
of barking and growling. Familiarity
nevertheless breeds a satisfying form
of pity. This mixed genre, while a
bit of a cliche, makes Nathan Lane
beautiful. So of course—and also
cliche—after work everyone was
horny. It was a bad scene at first,
especially considering what we’d all
been through the week before and
whatnot. But in the end we all had
such a lovely time. And the forget-
ful bistro’s atmosphere, so haunting.
As it fades like a Polaroid in a dusty
closet, slips into a mid-summer nap
in the late afternoon or early evening,
a pile of dictionaries strewn about the
moonlit den, colleagues left with
what’s obvious, disguised as
forbidden fruit (but only tongue-
in-cheek). To delicately explore
the luxuries of each dew-moistened
lip. The vacation felt vaguely tropical
and slowly slipped into a dreamless coma.
