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To David Krump's previous piece
Steady, Center These things that are lost, I remember them too: The yellow underwear you wore when menstruating, The sexual hairpins on your childhood white dresser Stained with nail polish, and the sticky ghosts of half-removed Boy band stickers. Is everything outgrown, a volumish saulting outgrowth of itself, Which like a mouthful of tincture cabernet sinks dryly towards the center of the self? Half lowly now, I remember your mallow aspects-cheeks, lips, thighs, breasts- The way one could sink into any of them like white, blush La Brea. The area on your hand, the siren region between your thumb and index, like A lost mammoth, I find myself twisting in it, and I'm so fucking hairy But The breathing I hear now is not my own; it is the puppy dreaming of Steady incense snakes and Shiny Buddha Bellies. Something mallow he finds in these things. Sometimes, the sound, the breathing, it is the street and I watch it swell and lull. A conceited coupon, escaped from an old woman's purse, saults his way on by, Offering in orange 35cents off, but off what? The eye of a potato, the very strange sexuality Of a banana, the pitiable nature of collected things? I don't want to say it, but I've told myself I would be honest before I leave. It is sadly discomforting, now that I too am a collected, a preserved. Flip open the lid to your ballerina box-there I am. Stacks of blacks and whites, a few colored, smiling in one costume or another-Hamlet, Clyde, George-Friendly-Bailey. And who will see these now that I am a piece in such a private collection, like Van Gogh's Starry Night, which some bastard bought and hasn't held a public viewing of in more than thirty-four years. But I am not a Van Gogh, I am reminder of an extramarital ejaculation that occurred twenty three years ago. It's something like your mother said to the four year old version of you in the toy store. "No, Honey, choose this dolly. It opens its eyes when you pick it up." I'm at the train station and Van Gogh's vicious minstrel sweeps everywhere: the platform, the alley ways, the undersides of Graffiti Bridge. The train station-it's a little known out from this riverside blackhole. And the blackhole crushes, compacts, until eventually everything is central. J.A., Yeats, the center, well, this is where and what it is, right here and growing and I'm leaving for Chicago. In anticipation, I put my ear to the bent track, and hear it, all of it there: the train, the heavy breathing of the black hole, that tragic classical tinkling sound from her distanced ballerina box. I'm leaving with a black plastic bag taped, doubled up and stuffed with my jeans, my canvas, two leather belts, one brown, one black. But my essentials, a pack of roll your owns, a picture of myself in a red Donald Duck T-shirt, a felonious amount of marijuana and my libido, find themselves haphazardly packed in a downtown wrought iron garbage can. And, since you asked quite politely, the stars, yes, they're coming too.
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