With my beautiful friend I’m in a restaurant, Korean, farm-to-table joint. We had bibimbap and pork fried rice, cocktails with suja, grapefruit, hemlock. I used to hate poems that named places: this went down in Troy, New York.
She’s been sharing with me, I’ve been sharing with her, we share in an obsessive relationship to love that’s not nearby, love far away, hers in Ojai. Mine is catalogued in terms like Red Flags Fly. We neither of us, my friend and I relate,
ever cease checking our phones, and the magic of thinking that every minute is just another minute in which he may appear, however unlikely. In my case I’ve been explicitly told he won’t. Won’t return to me, won’t return my love. It’s a tight
habit, a rat-like snatch at synaptic blancmange, sweet cheese by which rats might be satisfied but never are, don’t have to be, a taste only makes more habit. Snapshot (obsolete) 2017: If my long lost love posts
a shot of a lit-up library at dusk, or the profile of his black hair in a forest, TBT he’s grey now—the modernity of it all kills me—slays me—I hate this kind of poem— it’s not for me, the shot, it’s for everybody, everybody plus the bots, plus the hundred rando Aussie lifestyle chix.