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2/11/99

Nada,

          "... these things I am going to write will never cause me
          to be loved by the one I love ..."
                                             --Roland Barthes

But let's say I've taken you, in arms as thin as Palatino
& that you're here, no lower than the sun
which, having set in Brooklyn, hours ago, rises now in Tokyo
filling your room with light as golden as Sappho's
Aphrodite. Don't your eyes adjust to this
as well? I wish I could describe for you how black the chimneys
are tonight out Laurie's window, how white
the sound of traffic sweeping through Messerole, to
no one cares where, how pink the distant sirens, drifting like leaves
through streets I don't know the names of.
You're the sweetest woman I know
your genius that
you'll read everything I write tonight as though
perfect life = why go on (w/this?) = what I fail to tell
when I tell anyone "I have a lover."
                                                  Building = chimney
or at least let me describe for you the water towers
full & flat against velvet night. I only mention velvet because
the thought of you in velvet
makes my balls ache. "To feel is to be." (I hope you agree.)
I wish I was senile, could sleep contentedly
but I know you're here, reading this, where I can't find the bottom
or I'd shut up, like, "Is that your white wings
against the window?"
                              Why did you wear black panties & bra
the first night we fucked
as tho you were in mourning? Who hasn't pissed their life away
like they were so special, hasn't
paid for it
w/their life? You
are where I always want to be, bigger because death
won't open you up
as I have, I have no notebook, only one last remaining wish
" to write this poem," tho it proves
no one right, addresses no problem, here
on this kitchen floor
where I think only you will ever see it, I'd rather be in bed
with you, but that doesn't mean I'm not
or that we're not, loosely stacked against you
no need of words. I'm frightened
I don't want to be this open
if it means having to leave you
to find something cheap

enough to eat. I'm writing because I want you to keep
holding onto my arm
                              rather than what I say

                                                                 Love,

                                                                           Gary

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