Some nights I forget the kind of person I am, and I spend hours ransacking subway cars and metro stations looking for pieces of myself to put back together again.
Logos = terror and a tendency toward narrative.
then I remember that I’m the kind of person who forgets the kind of person he is. the backward tragedy of unplanned encounters.
the priest’s name was Sogol.
he helped us climb backwards
over the mountain that could only be seen at sunset
and then, only at a certain angle.
this city sees books as a curse
and the city is right.
there are too many,
and if these notes someday evolve, become a collection,
it will be against my best wishes, for i never wished to pin butterflies against the wall
i only ever wished to imitate housecats addicted to their own affinities,
to set down the chronology of the heart.
the tragic beauty of unplanned encounters.
the charge that reaches the lowest urchins
who walk the streets among us.
mayakovsky’s anguished mares.
the irreducible laughter of unplanned encounters:
the only chronology that matters.
can you remember the last time you laughed
to yourself while jogging,,
reading a book outloud?
the city is always one step ahead of us,
and here we are, we want it all,
running to catch up with it.