In New York, hotels are only for parties. Everyone knows
what to order and how fast to drink. Stand still
as glass in shadows—it’s easy to overheat. Being “had”
suggests essential loss. I wish identity
could be just halves, but it’s more like a mondrian.
Lower East Side friday night. Artisinal olive oil
vodka art after party—thin, matte hotties
and autumn’s barely turning the city. Leaves
barely wearing peaches. Does a sore thumb
imply restlessness? Feelings don’t lend themselves
to butterflies. At some point, every gay man
wishes he could pull off hairpins.
We are often mercifully talked out of. Or down
to. Human beauty is the ability to incorporate.
What does a chameleon do on transparent
surfaces. I will repeat myself until the beauty
I was going to write “appears.”
Let’s go with that.