The Bodyguard Found Us Not Breathing
A new kind of cock to hide our fur from the starved thieves
May need to be part of this misunderstood sequence.
I'm desperate for your grasp, even if it is weak, even if it
is Monday.
Even if it is a drawing, a yellow kite, even if it is a goodbye
Or good-riddance kiss. Wet, sweet note.
The note might come in the form of a pattern.
It would take me years to understand Seconds to fashion response.
At once the (near) dead must be photographed, turned to flashcards,
Turned on their stomachs, turned and turned again.
--AARON COHEN, WRITTEN AT CREMA CAFE IN PORTLAND OREGON
JULY 30 2011