I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO CALL IT

Thinking about her.
Thinking about the hardware store.
Thinking about the last time I was here.
Thinking about the upper crust and how I
Congratulated the editor of allure for having a
Successful magazine.  I didn’t know it was she.
Thinking about the car-hop at the Waldorf Astoria
Winking at me telling me that it was my lucky day
Because he got me a car in front of all the rich people.
I was staying there in the towers.  The room was bigger
Than big.  Thinking about Maralyn Monroe.  Thinking
About the Virgin Mary in Little Italy.  Thinking about the
One’s and Two’s and scribbling in notebooks trying to use
A new language.  Thinking about the sad horses of central park.
Thinking about aero beds and back spasms.  Thinking about private
Conversations in public places.  Thinking about drinking in a bar at ten
A.M.  Thinking about my feet.  Thinking about how strange it was to think about
Them.  Thinking about feeling the earth for the first time through the sidewalk. 
Thinking about my dad carrying a bedspread with a bandage on his hand. 
Thinking about the rooftops.  Thinking about how I had turned some
Corner because the rooftops with little plants and Buddha’s on
Them were not the same to me.  Like the park bench.  Or a
Brown paper bag.  Or walking around in the cold with a my
Collars turned up and a cigarette dangling from my
Lips.  Thinking about being an actor.  Plagiarism.
Playing myself in public.  Thinking about
The three of them together fucking in
A big fluffy bed.  Thinking about taking
Pictures of my cock and sending them to
Someone on my cell phone.  Thinking about
Phone sex.  Hard ons in the airport.  Space and
Time ripping.  Blackmail.  Dreams about ice chips,
Fires, homes and a tactile sense of forever.  Thinking
About standing on the street in front of a convenience store
Loaded with gay porn.  Thinking about feeling safe.  Like
I reached the end of the sentence with a period in the form of her. 
Being safe.  Understood.  Loved.  Thinking about Don Quixote.  Thinking
About battering rams.  Misconceptions.  Thinking about airplanes.  Thinking
About peanut pie.  Thinking about ravens and little Anthony who slept beneath the
Flowers in the garden.  .  Thinking about an old lady with glitter on her face
Talking about bending a spoon with her mind.  Thinking about wearing long
John sleeves beneath my t-shirt.  Thinking about suits.  Style.  Later.  Tomorrow. 
Better.  Thinking about a stranger with a face like sunshine.  Thinking about smoke.
A baby bjorn full of cherry blow pops.  Thinking about how the book never ends.  The end keeps running away from home with blue suitcases full of nothing but pillows.  It never ends. 
The proclamations keep coming.  It just keeps going.  I keep feeling my heart beat in
My ears and when I breathe I feel nauseous.  This in not a bad thing nor a new thing.
But when this happens I know to pay attention.  It is and isn’t weird.  I keep
Getting tears in my eyes.  I keep swallowing them.  I keep feeling like
Right now, in this moment there is nothing wrong with me.  There
Has never been anything wrong with me.  There is no such thing
As aberration.  It just keeps going.  I feel my eyes flip
Backwards.  The air is vibrating.  I think about comfort. 
I think about truth.  I feel conviction.  I realize
That sometimes comfort is the antagonist. 
I know that truth is always the antagonist.
Some times is the antagonist.  I think about me. 
I’m always a factor.  I scribble this half thought on my arm
And have no idea if it has value.  I look around.  I want to snap a
Picture on my cell phone.  I make another note.  I put a pin in it.  I
Feel like this is an important moment.  I can’t quite articulate it.
I feel like something is sacred.  It keeps going.
It keeps going.  I scribble it down.  The
Subway intimidates me.  It never
Ends.