-After Felix Gonzalez-Torres’s Untitled, (Portrait of Ross in L.A.)



I took a chocolate from the weight of the body of his dying lover sculpture by Felix Gonzalez-Torres. It is beyond intense to cross the empty room to the corner and take one of the candies from the precarious pile. You feel the lover’s physical depletion, are making it happen, though he has already gone from the earth. Guilt that you are alive and he isn’t. I worried the chocolate in my hand in my pocket and continued walking around the museum, fondling the ounce that could be an ounce of a living, deeply loved person, but isn’t. And the person who loved the lover isn’t any longer either. The pyramid of chocolates slowly shrinks for the duration of the evening which is a lesson in how we grow farther and farther away from you when you die. I say “you die” and not “we” because this is only an earthly perception that can inhabit the mind of the living, unwrapping the thin silver foil in a parking lot and taking the chocolate in two bites, the first careful, melted on the tongue, the second, swallowed, to finish it.









and undressed, without moving

from the rickety chair,

all morning try to say how I feel 

and later,


                            in love with the saleswoman 

who snips a thread at my collar, patting,



like flat ginger ale

someone has brought to you


I think I have to sit down

on your fine leather couch


by very many mirrors

I might be alone 

for awhile



and later, among the children,

I get the attic 

for my shadow tribe!

                      The library is a no-kill zone.

You are pretending to be a cat! You are an adolescent!

She’s a healer! I have a string 

with three metal beads

around my ear.                 Find your place for us

                                           was the song




a boy sassed


I was thinking, ocean, 

where an eye 

grows cold


  in the blue-black

  the salt-and-black-blue

  slabs of un-ending


that’s where it comes from too


if all of this is only 

a point 

              there aren’t even 

any lines, get out your intuition 


Permission to Stay Longer

I wrote on the slip


thought I knew what it was like not to

disturb the burning


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