Milk like
Nick’s (ramp-
ant) rice farm
shudder with the
farts of the wild
rams (and their res-
pective ramettes) and
it’s so totally amped, hasn’t
seen rain in the timespan it
took me to attend three new
Thai eateries’ grand openings
(each, consequently, to rave reviews)
here at the opposite end of the Pac-
ific…. So, it’s the videocam
again, it’ll always do in an in-
stant (neither of us is yawning);
an instant of love over the
mildew of lost connections,
I think aloud with the (by now)
tired and sleepy crickets. A
quick list of the cons of an
unwitting conversationalist
(unwilling, though?) means
much more than a possible
risk that never got a chance
to even return home a pro (a
live one, anyway). Thus, this
prospectus (in perpetuity): he
begs with his legs until he
probably believes he can prove
non-proximal conversion —
but from this end of deprav-
ity he (as usual) spews his top
(which clearly should be crim-
son red!). Stop. No. There is
nary a tract of (his) (thought?)
process (flitting as swiftly and
as flirtatiously as his eyelashes
and as endearingly as his aping
of my own curse phrases —
which I conduct in honor of my
dad, I always say after a spate —
only he twists the phrases so in-
side out until all sorts of hil-
arity simmers deep in my gut and
erupts as an explosion of
gratitude and forgiveness).
Then his quick change of
subject, which is intentional,
not in the least non sequitur,
and so dizzying that I forget
whether we’re dining at
The Ritz this evening or (in his
case, tomorrow morning) at
The International House of
Baloney. But I can clearly
ascertain that the guy sitting
at the table next to ours (or,
rather, mine?) has a lifeless
hand cupping his crotch while
he concentrates deeply into
his phone. This scene is so nor-
mal as to generate satisfac-
tion. I might as well be speak-
ing directly into my table-
neighbor’s crotch. It is, I de-
cide, a good thing I can write
in the stead of whatever I’m
paying for at whenever mo-
ment I decide is payday. I
remember an entire
city filled with internet. But
I seem memory-free when it
comes to the serial dramas and
serial killers that crumbled and
corrupted it. The city is who I
love. Do you? Dehydration may
yet turn out to be true love after all.
I found you in this city, lover
of mine, conducting a wok. It
is a story of two poles on a
big ball of seasons; delicious
with stir-fry (the air is perm-
eated ginseng). The grieving
process is enormous, hyper-
bolic, ignorant (most hope-
fully) and always induces hy-
perventilation. We shall meet
next week when the icecaps
finish melting and will of course
have no choice but to collapse
into a bear hug that slowly
works its grip all the way down
to our twenty throbbing, drowning,
electric-ecstatic toes. You pick
your reality. And I will pick mine.
