the world came to an end, or so I thought. It was also the year
frank made its bold debut into the world. I started carrying it
around with me everywhere and anywhere I went as a lucky
charm. Words oozing from the pages onto the cobblestones,
the marble arches, the colossal statues, or resting their head
on the blades of grass contouring Keats’s tomb, or waving
their hand at Corso, the bad boy of poetry, bitching about
transcendence. Luminous rays sprang from the hinges, stupor
creeped out from an old ottoman. A paraphernalia of wonders.
A Wunderkammer of curiosities. I headed on a confessional trip
wearing tight jeans over an abundance of flesh, the turquoise
ring flashing as a malachite dream on my middle finger. At
night an alluring voice droned in my ear tales of a serial killer –
with the lushness of a peacock’s feather out of a still life by
Rembrandt. I held your little girl’s hand in your hometown’s
funeral parlor in Michigan, the air thick with the gold of
remembrance. I petted snakes crossing our paths and savored
pages that tasted like NY, the Bowery, that Eden of thrill
& addiction. And posers. I would have rescued you from
Burroughs-the Harpy, from his snarky remarks complimenting
your pornography, from those mere few days’ brushing
with fame. I would have rescued you form Warhol’s blank
stare and from Love’s heartbreak. And now, in this timeless
summer, I cling to your humanity. It surfaces in my blood, it
gives me the shivers. It makes two extra legs stem from my torso.
It makes my four feet stomp the ground. It makes me want to
kick this dumb, dumb world’s fat ass.