CD called me a sweet thing. I read him a crown of Hacker sonnets. Told him my joke "I lifted and reworked a few lines of Marilyn Hacker. Yeah, you can call me Kathy Hacker". The joke didn't quite land but I am assured of its brilliance. And so a sweet thing,
terms only exist for their categorizations.
My obsessions are my own, haunted by an oddball past.
You called me complicated. I asked no further questions.
CD laughed when I in a mental high was referring to Stein's "Patriarchal Poetry" as a response to epics like Wasteland. If you think about it her moves are in the dark, subtle, loutish but refined. He laughed and called me a sweet thing again.
As of yesterday we both have our love poems we wrote for each other published. Mine goes live on Monday.
This week has been a hard week for object oriented ontologies. I despise being confronted with my permanence or lack their of. But this week has also bombarded me with own pleasure mechanics. There's no denying how Berlin indulged my hedonism, how it nurtured a sleeping slutty dragon.
I wanted you to go down on me on the horizontal tree, by the swamp, by the family. Ultimate tease.
This morning I signed up for LA Warman's poetry class on erotics.
Yesterday was one of the better days I have had in a while. I walked from Forsyth street to Central Park. I got a Mudd iced coffee on the way and felt myself become grand, coffee always does that to me. I've remarked on this before but being over-caffeinated feels like being in love.
Nico and I ate protein bars and 2.5 grams of mushrooms. I put their rose colored glasses over my glasses. I hugged smooth bark. I wanted to expose myself to the park goers but refrained of course. The dogs are so funny and expensive looking in Central Park. They looked like they were wearing suits that resembled dogs. We walked around the desolate East 70s, the shops all closed, it was eerie yet serene. It forced me to be hyper aware of everything else-- such as the facades of buildings. It felt very 70's in their color schemes, terracotta, washed blue, mauve. Nico smoked a joint on the street in their shirt that said "I heart Pope Francis"
We strolled back to the park. Nico tells me about me, tells me about themselves. Sometimes it's nice when people tell you about you, god, what a relief to not have to conceptualize myself for once. I am whatever you say I am. People at the park didn't seem too careful which is a bummer but who am I to speak to this. We witnessed a group of friends on the grass, they had sunglasses on and were smoking cigarettes. We both cried at the scene. It felt like the 70's again. I caught myself attempting to snide Nico, I did this by telling them that they deserve a love supreme and that I'm happy to have them in my life. We embraced hands for a moment.
After several hours I caught a yellow cab back to Forsyth street. The cabbie said "be safe sweetheart". My feet still hurt from yesterday. I produced serotonin yawns.
Things to look forward to after Quar: Lampshade store, Canal Street Plastics, head on an unmade bed in the Chelsea Hotel, margaritas, doggy stepmom of 2, seeing your complete face on the streets, any parties
Today I'm thinking about death via Susan Howe's "That This" and I'm still horny. Tomorrow is a question.
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