Wrote in Florida

THIS woman wants to make love to THAT man, she wants to it here, clothes still on, sun still up, fast, loud like a symphony. She seems him across grass (her name is Jackie Rafferty. Say it three times fast if you can. Say it in Arameic, if you can). She wants to run at the pale, pink blob his body makes, wants them to collide together and neatly insert themselves (comme YIN comme YANG) with a frank but quite lovely thud, perhaps in midair. Definitely in midair.

It is frightening and brave but painless. A frantic thing, to stave off death. Ink! And sand. This woman wants. No yelps or squelches, simply just heat, the horrified hollers of elderly undead onlookers, paramedics who cannot reach them before the deed is done (sprinting sprinting sprinting cross the grass, cold shiny instruments dancing under sun) And there are no fingers strong enough to pry the magnets apart! (They’re fused! LIKE SIAMESE TWINS! OH, THE HUMANITY! [yesohthehumanity…]). Three and a half feet above the earth he will whisper sweet SOMETHINGS, breath smelling like nothing at all. Even stuck together the smack makes no stubble or spit, as I may or may not have suggested before--solicit techno music videos, deadbolt clicks, snowy owl hoots, whatever you imagine a bomb sounds like a hundred miles away behind big helicopter pilot headphones, I mean before television told you. Just…take pity on her. You see, Jackie Rafferty has never been in love and so this is what she thinks it is.

Wrote this in Florida. MISS Florida. It's hard to come back and make choices and as ever, be a slightly different person in the same body and space...