unread book, brought to coffee shop as Skin
Trophy; the flies light-breeze around my face, they smell
death thin-made around my potential. i compromise,
say i will read it on the road-trip, tomorrow, when
we go hurtling through more of California looking
to get married. but they know
I am lying; the summer-heat sucks me, wet-mouth,
like a friend: fellow-parasocialite. strained-
out run-down music in the headphones, I would get
naked in the car. now we are waiting, now we
are pure; Europa again becomes Sex. the coffee-shop
watches, dead-eyed: my substance, my poetry, my
ephemeral [political third-eye] I am getting
back in the habit of skinning myself and making it
pretty, although the end, as ever and ever
amen, eludes me.
poem: parasocialite
the last pavilion 