Tendrils of stars and skin,
wearing hats that taste like you do.
Can you see them frowning?
I used to believe in order.
The taste of molten paper blows through
my teeth as the words come out,
pronged by sappy leaves
oozing golden saliva.
Do you know the one about the tortoise and Hercules?
I think it’s Achilles.
I don’t think that’s right. It’s like the tortoise is walking… well… running, I guess. But it’s moving slowly cuz it’s a tortoise. And it’s racing Hercules.
Oh yeah, I know it. It is Achilles.
But it’s like, if Hercules is faster than it, he’s gonna catch up. But first it has to get halfway to the tortoise, then half way to that, and half of that. So it’s like he can’t do it because he has to overcome infinitely small distances.
That’s not right at all. It’s literally the opposite. It’s about how smaller infinities make up a finite space. It’s a calculus thing. Achilles does win.
Whatever. Smart-ass. If you knew about it, why would you let me tell it?
It’s the age of enlightenment, baby.
Your voice is easier to hear on the speaker.
Where the fuck did I leave my keys?
A faint jangling metal in my pocket.
It’s so hard to separate past from present.
You consume an infinite portion of my mind
which amounts to a finite space in my bed.
But you would never reach that same conclusion.
Write a book about it.
Who else studies the frictions of your words?
I slipped on your Newport pack again.
Who counts the stretch marks on your back?
Now I eat off of spoons and forks you leave behind,
relish in the gentle traces of ash and smoke.
It’s the age of enlightenment, baby.
Your western words melt me from the inside out.