The book fell into my possession, signed and dedicated, but not to me.
like a personal note- a parasocial intrigue.
Written by John, not to me, but yet:
Here it is on its way to my room
To take pride of place next to all the porn
I said you were like a disease, but
Whether I like it or not, you’ve infected me, although,
Not like a pathogen does, moreso,
Like an unseen living creature
Or a hunk of decay,
Material, or food poisoning.
I looked at Isaacs’ flesh tributes.
I wanted to see them the way they could see me. &
Sack the political commentary, for,
It’s not 1997 anymore, and I’m hungry for something else.
John. It gives me the fear to use others’ names in conversation, but
Things just flow so freely with you
I can recite over and over: John this, John that, John, John, John again,
John in a set of 3 lines
Hunk of shark
Hunk over snow, and
Elsewhere, more of him
More of us,
More of what art can and cannot do,
What it cannot be,
What it cannot afford,
Where, in the dark, the neons might be hung.
Maybe in a light corner of an unopenable free port.
Maybe in the pockets of my imagination,
Maybe in the type of love that only a stan can express, despite
Yucky lights
And references to Edmund Burke.
Dedicated, not to me, but to some other who got there first.