I hate poetry. What I want is a man. Everyone of them I see, be they blue eyes (very deep and luminous, like the sun glinting off of a lake) or straw brown hair (farms) and strong muscles (mountains?) below. Legs pushing and throbbing, the force I can feel if I only push myself into it, and the glint in the eyes, hungry (I am something succulent, devour me). I can't describe him because I have not seen him. Is he in the sky? Or below the earth? He is you that I saw today, though I didn't dare to admit. He is the moment of change. He's the dark-eyed one I've seen before walking between buildings between classes between words and I wanted myself to throw him right there down on the ground and bring him ecstasy (the shock force of an explosion, you didn't know you were hit, it happens when you least expect it) -- but I was planning. I was planning slinking in the corners. I was planning poised on the top of the rock (and I could feel the rough bits between my feet). You see, I was planning it when I made the sky -- especially for you, all fiery bits of red. It was the hot Calvin Klein model with the rippling abdomen and the pecs (pectorals -- almost like a bird, pteradactyl, and don't pronounce the P -- what we call a little sexy meta-narrative) and he had a lost look in his eyes. He was an Italian and he came from Italy and he wrote poetry in his free time and fucked men, lifting their legs high up into the air and making them moan and squirm with a nubile glea (or nuptials? It comes from new, the new life, the new and clinging fragrance, the) he had a long, arching face like a mountain or an eagle and spectacles perched fiery and brooding over their nest, eggs, the rock of his mind (the rock of his balls, deep spuming with seed), something deep in him that poured out fierce in the pen (so that it was graft, a very particular passage from Edmund White, something stolen from the heart of me into a cerebral ecstasy of sound -- first genius). And I lay myself down to him. And I was soft, like falling feathers. And I was vulnerable. And I was high on the cliff. And the wind was cold.

You, reading this, I don't want you. You're ugly. I won't have it. It's over.

But I will whisper to you sweetly in your air when you're not looking or hearing, and then I'll dream over you. What dreams will I make? Little whispy and not very philosophical clouds that aren't responsible and don't take into account cause or effect or reasoning from induction. It won't be very scholarly -- it will be written in pastels. The pastels will be nice, but a little bit gay -- a little bit like men taking it up in the ass, and it will not bring to mind an image of Erasmian responsibility (but of course, reading this, you're thinking -- post-modern bullshit. Now who influenced it? Well it wasn't John Donne...no, her name was Anne, and she was a friend of Ginsberg's, and we all know that Ginsberg fucked his share of men -- and quite a few of them in all probability had fleas, though according to Hume that's no satiable reality -- but let me tell you, mmmhmmm, those men were sated. Have you ever read "Howl"? It's like being fucked).

Of course it's quite lewd and offensive and not in the least bit organized. There will be little shells and strings of pearls and eggs; it will be something fragile and experiential like a vase experimental made of smooth blue glass, tall and cubic rectangular, on display on a white pedestal in a galery in New Mexico. And when you see it you'll think of color combinations and not love or ecstasy -- my love or ecstasy was the hot fire shaping the glass: the crass desire for ass. The vase bursts; I'll admit, I made it so I could shatter it. Desire leaks and lust burns. I saw two men go up the stairs, followed them like Rimbaud with my eyes, undressed them with my eyes. Undoubtedly going to FUCK in the thesis tower.

It was the inappropriate exculpation of an age. Unfit for the eyes of small children. These children on the edge of age, these small, these unprofitable beings. Don't know love. I don't. I cling to the edge of the cliff and it is a very long way down, things are small and outlined blue and white and little specks of green (not blue big blue of eyes and endless fields of straw) so I won't jump. Take me, I am fleet like a wind moving through the cold of night, and if you touch me so warm and small and fragile like an eaglet (with a sharp beak and talon claws). But hold my warm body. I can feel you rising to meet me as I fall (in love, two type-pieces held together in print by the heat an ejaculation).