I’ve been here for sixteen days now. Today I bought my second pack of Spirits from a shop below my second job for twice the Iowa price from a man twice my age with sags double my sags’ depth, and remarked in astonishment at the youth displayed in my ID, and we had light-blue chit-chat about the relative pros and cons about that remark’s propositional contours; looking younger than you’d like for things it’s best to do with age, looking too old in youthful praxis, being too old for the joys of said praxis.
In the city, everyone knows, yet they still can
be amazed, for they like to be reminded, if only–
I’m only blue because I feel myelf conceding to loneliness, to being unknown and unloved. My life here’s a big charade, with everyone playing their necessary parts arbitrarily, like it could be anyone being-there, becoming-sentimental-ape, becoming-rascist-sollipsist, becoming-invisible-housewife, becoming-facade…these are my roommates, repectively Cody, Tim, Larry and Nick, all trying on each other’s flow in self-extolling parodies of one another’s absence(s). I would wonder what they store me as, which recognitions take? But I know I give even less than Nick takes, and he’s just surveillance.
Which is how I made my capital, or was made by it, on last Friday and Saturday, when I entered a production of education at Lincoln Center–everyone left full. Even Sandra.


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