In the kitchen, into his dictophone: My intention is to toast you with a smoky bourbon. What part of you do I no longer crave? You on your barstool, your crumpled hand maimed to the exact contours of a tulip flute, hair growing as we reminisce, lungs clouding and murmuring as you hum Kurt Weill tunes. There is a preeminent hole in my stomach from our steady diet of red beans and room temperature whiskeys. Cigarette paper clings to you lips, pigeonshitdust, snatches of old tunes.
A drought when we met. We matched rainless days with sleeplessness twentyseven solid days. August days at that. Heat and laziness combine into a swoon of remedial porn. The essence of porn is product, or byproduct, the effect of each union a precipitous pulp of odor and sweat to the brink of permanent revulsion. Movement decayed into tantric coma, a distinct pulse assigned to each point of interest, felt far off like depthsonor, an ear to the door. [switches off dictaphone] Oh my.
On your gravestone:
All angels must earn the weight of their marble and
in flight stoop to the gravity of the unremarkable
-the basest instinct-
consigned to flag the demented
and in its own likeness
outmaneuvered by its own descent
All angles must hang way back in this bread line
lobbing careful memories at the fornicators, heckling
each evidence of (at least each instance of)
the relentless chore of popular sin
lost in forgotten influence, like snatches of old tunes