Endless cups of hot strong coffee. Then luke warm. Cold. Joe. Cudjoe. Wrapping myself in Wideman's words like blankets. Like nets meant for safety. The corporeality of history and the exteriority of time. Space. Spaces. Between text and sound. Of Damien Rice's soft utterances on B-sides. About Dicks made of Wood. And the constancy of being let down. And never knowing the way home. Homewood. Everything burns. Becomes ashes. Even this flame that aches between my legs. Tugging at my frenum. That wants you there and the absence of you there at the same time. To feel it or remember it is the same thing. The mystery of remembering and forgetting in simultaneous instances of time. Some garden of eden when our minds figure out how to understand both. Like sipping at the broth left at the bottom of the bowl of Asian noodles. Sacraments found in eating the definition of the word coalesce. There are always the proffers of bad reality television. Punctuation to a night less well spent. And new boots worn all day long that still feel comfortable by the comparison of being without. Like shedding skins that you aren't yet ready to slough off. To let go of. The way the leather breaks tight against the ankle on the up steps of stairs. As if your hands grasp at gripping and remain there. Like children's fists on strings of balloons. To keep me from floating clean away.

No that isn't what I meant to say. Mean. It was something simpler.

Like. I'm tired.

Or how pounding the souls of these useless feet against the refracting asphalt of this useless city in which I hate to live rings shiny and sparkling like your cheeks do when I've pressed my shadowed eyes against your face and the result of the moments of embrace linger and catch whatever light bright pulses them into fruition.

No, it's still that I am. God. So. Fucking. Tired.

If wishes were kisses, then we'd both be floating easy in oceans of ecstasy.