I feel like a terrible thespian

or maybe a great comedian

playing a retarded character,

like Freddy Benson.
Other-days

I feel like that guy who shot himself

during The Watchmen, like an octopus

in a tank of lobsters. Your lips when
kissed that afternoon, silky, salty and

cold, parted like a cut jellyfish on

an overcast shoreline. Poverty, chastity

obedience, enclosure. I had a dream.
Watching a nun fall off a bicycle on the

banks of the Seine … but it’s like watching

a .gif and after my laughter subsides

I find myself fascinated with the

paralinguistics of the way her ankles bend

as she hits the stair-rail. It’s like Springsteen’s

Dancer in The Dark, you know, up against

yourself, tongue kissing your

shadow with reckless abandon.