Check out Robert Gluck reading from "Jack the Modernist" NSFW
The reading starts at 3:20, prior to that is just the introduction.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Three Untitled Poems/lyrical clusters
1
the herd reacts
tearing and pulsing
towards
fisted red snowbanks
2.
I stand Lumber legged
And tall hunched
Against sky backdropping
Orange and green
Wind from covered suns
Black beetle sized wagons
I spit out the pith
It goes between the mountains
And gets stuck in a goats head
3.
I slip between the secret cracks of sounds, pause a breath a muscle a synapse between finger and brain and typing fingers. I keep the
I keep the light
I keep my name
First time keeping secrets
Holding it close to chest
And scraping it with my thumb nail
Wooden and veined
Ringing
the herd reacts
tearing and pulsing
towards
fisted red snowbanks
2.
I stand Lumber legged
And tall hunched
Against sky backdropping
Orange and green
Wind from covered suns
Black beetle sized wagons
I spit out the pith
It goes between the mountains
And gets stuck in a goats head
3.
I slip between the secret cracks of sounds, pause a breath a muscle a synapse between finger and brain and typing fingers. I keep the
I keep the light
I keep my name
First time keeping secrets
Holding it close to chest
And scraping it with my thumb nail
Wooden and veined
Ringing
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Jane the Modernist: Part II
[I wrote this a year before I graduated modeled after Robert Gluck's "Jack the Modernist." The language is a bit overwrought, but that was intended. I also used this piece to explore postmodern desire. Elizabeth Grosz's "Space, Time, and Perversion: Essays on the Politics of Bodies" also heavily influenced me. This is part of a series.]
Lauren: I had a dream last night.
JANE: What do straight girls dream of?
Lauren: I dreamt that my brother was watching me take a piss on a toilet atop of a building. He had to use the bathroom, and he wouldn’t leave me alone. I just wanted some fucking privacy. He is angry and predatory. When I realize that my yelling isn’t working I start punching him in the stomach and jaw. I run to my father who for some reason is already yelling at me. I explain to him this is the third time I dreamed it, that it is not my fault. Then suddenly, my father’s face gets redder and redder and he is screaming so loud the entire campus can hear—he asks me—ARE YOU QUEER?
Jane: We’re not even dating yet, are you sure you want to come out? Besides, you’re a straight
girl. (She gives me a wink and undoes the top button of my pants)
Lauren: That’s not the point, my dad would never use a the word “queer”
Jane: He’s a republican, he’s your dad. (Her hands travel lower, and I am on the verge of un-remembering. But I persist; there is a point to be made.) That's not bashing, not his vitriolic use of "queer"--my dream dad meant the theory, the umbrella term of ambiguity. May dad doesn't know that, all he knows is "dyke" (JANE's tongue is now down my throat. Despite this, I have developed an ability to keep talking.)
Look, sexuality in itself is not transgressive (I raise my fist) it can't be out of the norms because it is all within the spectrum of human sexuality. Being gay, or bi, or pan-sexual (she loves it when I give my theoretical shout-out to the trans community...as much as a butch lesbian can. She shows me this by penetrating me with her fingers) is only defined as difference just because we live in a hetro-normative phallocentric society.
JANE: I'm not into three-somes
Lauren: Did I say "phallocentric?" I suppose that works but (I finally move my had from her hip down to her stomach, my fingers are starting to warm from this heat.) maybe I should have just said "patriarchal"--similar but different. Just like us.
She says nothing to this--I want this to be because she is unimpressed with the idea that lesbianism lubricates so well because it is rooted in sameness. But if I draw my mind/tongue back from her nipples, I realize this just because I read it somewhere. Some kind of feminist philosopher I read was unimpressed with the idea so I figured I should be unimpressed with it too. I am projecting but Jane doesn't know this. She is whispering to me breathily, fogging my mind and the windows simultaneously. “You’re fucking a girl for the first time.” She repeats this over and over, I think to cement this action, but I’m not sure. Perhaps she’s insecure that I want to be doing this. I try to tell myself that romance is overrated anyway, that it’s better to just abandon myself sensation now. I do this in hopes of romance later. (This is how I will explain it to Amy the next day.)
My attention turns to Jane's body: short, and curly Irish hair, and a small, hard body. Full of muscles, acquired through a lifetime of spending her time on a soccer field, it serves the dual purpose of turning me on and highlighting the differences in our own bodies. I tell myself that I shouldn’t fetishize her body—but this is a new lust: its nature is to straddle a dusky, faint line between a cult of worship and distant eroticized object. “Erotic” sounds terribly demeaning to me though, as if I were trying to pigeonhole her skin into some cheap paperback romance novel. But how else can I describe the terrible sexuality she exudes, but as one that not only excites but elicits a harmony of joyous, ecstatic melancholy? She is my Calamity Jane, my appropriated muse, my colonized femme fatale.
Lauren: I had a dream last night.
JANE: What do straight girls dream of?
Lauren: I dreamt that my brother was watching me take a piss on a toilet atop of a building. He had to use the bathroom, and he wouldn’t leave me alone. I just wanted some fucking privacy. He is angry and predatory. When I realize that my yelling isn’t working I start punching him in the stomach and jaw. I run to my father who for some reason is already yelling at me. I explain to him this is the third time I dreamed it, that it is not my fault. Then suddenly, my father’s face gets redder and redder and he is screaming so loud the entire campus can hear—he asks me—ARE YOU QUEER?
Jane: We’re not even dating yet, are you sure you want to come out? Besides, you’re a straight
girl. (She gives me a wink and undoes the top button of my pants)
Lauren: That’s not the point, my dad would never use a the word “queer”
Jane: He’s a republican, he’s your dad. (Her hands travel lower, and I am on the verge of un-remembering. But I persist; there is a point to be made.) That's not bashing, not his vitriolic use of "queer"--my dream dad meant the theory, the umbrella term of ambiguity. May dad doesn't know that, all he knows is "dyke" (JANE's tongue is now down my throat. Despite this, I have developed an ability to keep talking.)
Look, sexuality in itself is not transgressive (I raise my fist) it can't be out of the norms because it is all within the spectrum of human sexuality. Being gay, or bi, or pan-sexual (she loves it when I give my theoretical shout-out to the trans community...as much as a butch lesbian can. She shows me this by penetrating me with her fingers) is only defined as difference just because we live in a hetro-normative phallocentric society.
JANE: I'm not into three-somes
Lauren: Did I say "phallocentric?" I suppose that works but (I finally move my had from her hip down to her stomach, my fingers are starting to warm from this heat.) maybe I should have just said "patriarchal"--similar but different. Just like us.
She says nothing to this--I want this to be because she is unimpressed with the idea that lesbianism lubricates so well because it is rooted in sameness. But if I draw my mind/tongue back from her nipples, I realize this just because I read it somewhere. Some kind of feminist philosopher I read was unimpressed with the idea so I figured I should be unimpressed with it too. I am projecting but Jane doesn't know this. She is whispering to me breathily, fogging my mind and the windows simultaneously. “You’re fucking a girl for the first time.” She repeats this over and over, I think to cement this action, but I’m not sure. Perhaps she’s insecure that I want to be doing this. I try to tell myself that romance is overrated anyway, that it’s better to just abandon myself sensation now. I do this in hopes of romance later. (This is how I will explain it to Amy the next day.)
My attention turns to Jane's body: short, and curly Irish hair, and a small, hard body. Full of muscles, acquired through a lifetime of spending her time on a soccer field, it serves the dual purpose of turning me on and highlighting the differences in our own bodies. I tell myself that I shouldn’t fetishize her body—but this is a new lust: its nature is to straddle a dusky, faint line between a cult of worship and distant eroticized object. “Erotic” sounds terribly demeaning to me though, as if I were trying to pigeonhole her skin into some cheap paperback romance novel. But how else can I describe the terrible sexuality she exudes, but as one that not only excites but elicits a harmony of joyous, ecstatic melancholy? She is my Calamity Jane, my appropriated muse, my colonized femme fatale.
Jane the Modernist: Part I
[I wrote this a year before I graduated modeled after Robert Gluck's "Jack the Modernist." The language is a bit overwrought, but that was intended. I also used this piece to explore postmodern desire. Elizabeth Grosz's "Space, Time, and Perversion: Essays on the Politics of Bodies" also heavily influenced me. This is part of a series.]
Further exploration is at hand, I sense—perhaps an exit from my current liminal state, but I guess whatever this voyage produces; most likely it will be a graduation to another plane-less arena. I am in my early 20s; could it be any other way? I’m not searching for stability, per se, but more of a fixed center around which events orbit. It’s not regression to the child—the I, I, I center of the universe—it is grounded in my desire to have my rococo be more than just ornamental stutter. To have the peaceful Zen at being at the center of the shell, (“the eye of the storm?” she offers, I say, “I never really like snow globes anyway”), while still being orbited by dips and crags and spires—all of which, when taken in a whole, produce a dazzling effect. My life is in the peripheral, unable to fully grasp the enormity (but I am in my early 20’s, I say, hubris marks my generation) Barely, just barely I climb through the labyrinth, looking for an axis, retreating, marching, a stuttering dotted line.
My latest arch to traverse will be her body. Have I intersected with her surfaces, ran my hands over the cloth boarders of some new, exotic land? Only minimally, I reply. In language I find my prejudice: “his” vs. “her.” His is “is”, the forward state of declarative existing, of puffed chest and “I’m ready” erect cock. Her is the “er”, a stuttering imposed upon me by my naivete, the unknown, the constant apologizing—can I touch? caress? She answers me by putting her hands, arms on my hips.
This new love/lust is like seeing an old man buying flowers in a grocery store. It has the same profound joyous melancholy. (I want her to argue it's more "ecstatic" than "joyous", but this is just wishful thinking.) Same body, different vein. Whereas the new lover is like a cannon ball straight to the jugular, causing your chest cavity feel completely empty and aware, the old man is a transfusion to the arm. It passes its way around the body, simultaneously warming and cooling until it diffuses into the stomach where it then becomes black tar. We get drunk off this syrup--hurriedly wondering about your own mortality, our own momento mori. How far can we live in a day-to-day basis? I ask the old man, do you, in all your years of experience think that language can take us beyond a few blooms?
"Only when its uttered in sincerity," he says.
"Isn't everything I say sincere? I'm in my early 20s."
"Hubris," she reminds me.
My hand rolls up to her collarbone, her neck, and feels the scruff of newly cut hair. Our mouths meet in such a way that says yes, but I reply, can I? She slides her hand up my shirt and stops at my navel. She is surprised it is pierced. I tell her I am surprised it is pierced most of the time too. It is part of my history—I hope that she will discover through time. It’s the history that comes with being more than a one-night stand—but how could she not call after I bend my neck and sigh in such a way when I kiss her? How could she not see the complete longing in my eyes in this car, in this dimly lit parking lot? I hope the street lights will illuminate this a little. But, I tell myself, men have failed to see it in the soft glow of my bedside table, how could this be different?
Further exploration is at hand, I sense—perhaps an exit from my current liminal state, but I guess whatever this voyage produces; most likely it will be a graduation to another plane-less arena. I am in my early 20s; could it be any other way? I’m not searching for stability, per se, but more of a fixed center around which events orbit. It’s not regression to the child—the I, I, I center of the universe—it is grounded in my desire to have my rococo be more than just ornamental stutter. To have the peaceful Zen at being at the center of the shell, (“the eye of the storm?” she offers, I say, “I never really like snow globes anyway”), while still being orbited by dips and crags and spires—all of which, when taken in a whole, produce a dazzling effect. My life is in the peripheral, unable to fully grasp the enormity (but I am in my early 20’s, I say, hubris marks my generation) Barely, just barely I climb through the labyrinth, looking for an axis, retreating, marching, a stuttering dotted line.
My latest arch to traverse will be her body. Have I intersected with her surfaces, ran my hands over the cloth boarders of some new, exotic land? Only minimally, I reply. In language I find my prejudice: “his” vs. “her.” His is “is”, the forward state of declarative existing, of puffed chest and “I’m ready” erect cock. Her is the “er”, a stuttering imposed upon me by my naivete, the unknown, the constant apologizing—can I touch? caress? She answers me by putting her hands, arms on my hips.
This new love/lust is like seeing an old man buying flowers in a grocery store. It has the same profound joyous melancholy. (I want her to argue it's more "ecstatic" than "joyous", but this is just wishful thinking.) Same body, different vein. Whereas the new lover is like a cannon ball straight to the jugular, causing your chest cavity feel completely empty and aware, the old man is a transfusion to the arm. It passes its way around the body, simultaneously warming and cooling until it diffuses into the stomach where it then becomes black tar. We get drunk off this syrup--hurriedly wondering about your own mortality, our own momento mori. How far can we live in a day-to-day basis? I ask the old man, do you, in all your years of experience think that language can take us beyond a few blooms?
"Only when its uttered in sincerity," he says.
"Isn't everything I say sincere? I'm in my early 20s."
"Hubris," she reminds me.
My hand rolls up to her collarbone, her neck, and feels the scruff of newly cut hair. Our mouths meet in such a way that says yes, but I reply, can I? She slides her hand up my shirt and stops at my navel. She is surprised it is pierced. I tell her I am surprised it is pierced most of the time too. It is part of my history—I hope that she will discover through time. It’s the history that comes with being more than a one-night stand—but how could she not call after I bend my neck and sigh in such a way when I kiss her? How could she not see the complete longing in my eyes in this car, in this dimly lit parking lot? I hope the street lights will illuminate this a little. But, I tell myself, men have failed to see it in the soft glow of my bedside table, how could this be different?
Salt and Pepper Night
I should leave this place. Should wash myself clean; forget the debt, let someone else take care of it. “Cut ‘n Run” as Alex would say. Stop kissing the damn rat boys and stealing glass-eyed stares from nervous mothers. I breathe out dust and beer.
I catch The Poet drawing stars on a mailbox with a thick black marker. Seven stars. He tells me it’s God’s number. I could use some religion, could use some clarity. I ask him to read me poetry. He tells me poetry is all around me: is in the trees, the stars, in cigarettes. Is in the pen. Is in the body. I shift around uncomfortably. He sees this so he lowers my head. I taste musk. Asking why this is poetry seems like a stupid question. Stupid questions get you nowhere. So I reach my hands around his ass and steal his marker. Payment received.
Another day shoves me down, says, "Leave," but I stay instead. I’ve got payment to make. My debt’s not done. I am drawing stars in the dark now, seven of them. I try to make them even, but I can’t without adding an extra point. I try to loosen up, to flow, but my fist is too tight. Alex would've told me there are only five points. Six wasn’t right. But his opinion doesn’t really count for fuck now. I’m drawing nine pointed stars, stars more circles than angles, just because. I find The Poet’s stars, on walls, on mailboxes, so I start adding more points. My lines are thicker, wavy, unsure. So my points don’t blend in.
Is this a prayer? Is this religion? I don’t know.
I am drawing like this for days, for nights, when I should be sleeping. But I can’t sleep like I can’t stop drawing. It’s all a blood debt and God’s number.
I don’t even notice that I’ve been followed until it’s too late. The Poet is angry. I shouldn’t have fucked with his work. I run.
The next morning, I am pushed down again. Paper-thin cuts on my forearms and shins. Blood saying, “run or you’re fucked.” Woodchips in my shoes. Mud is caked in my snarling black hair. I pull it out slowly, pinched between fingernails; leaving dust and chalk grey in its place. It’s garbage hair. Night hair. Knotted and wormy.
The Poet ties me to dusk, mats me down to the edge where trees and buildings meet the sky, hazy and red. Untying, escaping means running to the horizon, reaching and spreading arms. It means stop drawing stars. But I’m yanked back, pulled back by the scruff of my neck to the night, to street lamps and graffiti covered overpass.
Neat five pointed stars flare up, smack me down like the days, grind gravel into my knees. I still breathe dust and beer. But mostly I just breathe out paint.
I go to The Anarchist. He’s filthy but he offers up his bed.
He pulls me into tented sheets, wrinkled from having sex with strangers. He tells me he likes my name. Better than liking my eyes or bone structure so I fuck him. One, two, three times. One, two, three nights.
The Anarchist is a romantic. Which is fucking stupid to me. He calls me his love letter, tells me I’m ready to be mailed. Tucked in tight. I can’t sleep in strange beds, but I stay anyway. It’s better than the alternative. He knows so he closes the blinds, stuffs newspaper in the cracks. I can't even see the spray paint on the walls. I am not here, he says to the night, she is not home. Only the pulsing red glow of cigarettes light our bodies, faces. We take care not to ash on the bed, on our stomachs, on our thighs. Salt and pepper dust piles on old magazines that tell us of the good life, of Bon Appétit, of basted chickens and creamed asparagus. I forget to notice that he doesn't lock the door.
There is terror in his breath when he sleeps: breathe in, stop—long intervals and I wonder if he’ll breathe out. But he always does. I try to remind myself that heavy chested snores mean life, another inhale, another loud, trumpet exhale. Jubilation. But then I start to worry that he’s too loud, that he’s calling out, announcing, “I AM HERE.” That he’ giving me away. I open my eyes and the room is full of light. This is not ok. The newspaper has been pulled down. Seven stars are drawn on the mirror. God’s number.
I run. Out of there before The Anarchist even realizes I’m gone. Stupid fuck can’t even lock the door.
I pick up a payphone. Call Alex. Tell him about The Poet. Tell him about The Anarchist. Says he knows a place I can stay. Is off of Manzana and Bale. Where the factories used to be. Thanks, little brother. He reminds me about blood debt. Like I forgot. I hang up; I don't have time to deal with this shit.
The house is slumped into the earth. The sidewalk is mostly gone, but whatever is left is pointless anyway, it doesn’t really go anywhere.
I enter. The door stops before it should. Pink paint and wallpaper curl off the walls like knotted wood. The floor is soft under my feet, like only the tallow colored carpet is holding it together. Newspaper covers half the window; a large cock drawn in dust is on the other half. Behind the door is a desk of drawers. The top is punched in. Cigarette ash, razors, and burnt spoons are scattered everywhere. A bottle of rice vinegar sits out of place. The carpet is matted down with large sticky patches that shine when light wanders in. A mattress lies in the corner, covered in plastic, like the kind they have at kid’s camps so they don’t get stained with piss. Except this one has been cut with knives. And I can’t tell if its from anger or boredom or if it should even matter.
I feel a soft crunch under my foot. A rat has been burned in a pile of cigarette butts. Its jaw is half crushed in, its eyes gone. Foaming with maggots. I get a head rush. I feel like I’m going to throw up.
But I’ve got nowhere else to go so I just close my eyes and put my palms flat against my thighs. This is not a good place. But it’s a place, and my debt’s not paid yet. I’ll stay the night.
I catch The Poet drawing stars on a mailbox with a thick black marker. Seven stars. He tells me it’s God’s number. I could use some religion, could use some clarity. I ask him to read me poetry. He tells me poetry is all around me: is in the trees, the stars, in cigarettes. Is in the pen. Is in the body. I shift around uncomfortably. He sees this so he lowers my head. I taste musk. Asking why this is poetry seems like a stupid question. Stupid questions get you nowhere. So I reach my hands around his ass and steal his marker. Payment received.
Another day shoves me down, says, "Leave," but I stay instead. I’ve got payment to make. My debt’s not done. I am drawing stars in the dark now, seven of them. I try to make them even, but I can’t without adding an extra point. I try to loosen up, to flow, but my fist is too tight. Alex would've told me there are only five points. Six wasn’t right. But his opinion doesn’t really count for fuck now. I’m drawing nine pointed stars, stars more circles than angles, just because. I find The Poet’s stars, on walls, on mailboxes, so I start adding more points. My lines are thicker, wavy, unsure. So my points don’t blend in.
Is this a prayer? Is this religion? I don’t know.
I am drawing like this for days, for nights, when I should be sleeping. But I can’t sleep like I can’t stop drawing. It’s all a blood debt and God’s number.
I don’t even notice that I’ve been followed until it’s too late. The Poet is angry. I shouldn’t have fucked with his work. I run.
The next morning, I am pushed down again. Paper-thin cuts on my forearms and shins. Blood saying, “run or you’re fucked.” Woodchips in my shoes. Mud is caked in my snarling black hair. I pull it out slowly, pinched between fingernails; leaving dust and chalk grey in its place. It’s garbage hair. Night hair. Knotted and wormy.
The Poet ties me to dusk, mats me down to the edge where trees and buildings meet the sky, hazy and red. Untying, escaping means running to the horizon, reaching and spreading arms. It means stop drawing stars. But I’m yanked back, pulled back by the scruff of my neck to the night, to street lamps and graffiti covered overpass.
Neat five pointed stars flare up, smack me down like the days, grind gravel into my knees. I still breathe dust and beer. But mostly I just breathe out paint.
I go to The Anarchist. He’s filthy but he offers up his bed.
He pulls me into tented sheets, wrinkled from having sex with strangers. He tells me he likes my name. Better than liking my eyes or bone structure so I fuck him. One, two, three times. One, two, three nights.
The Anarchist is a romantic. Which is fucking stupid to me. He calls me his love letter, tells me I’m ready to be mailed. Tucked in tight. I can’t sleep in strange beds, but I stay anyway. It’s better than the alternative. He knows so he closes the blinds, stuffs newspaper in the cracks. I can't even see the spray paint on the walls. I am not here, he says to the night, she is not home. Only the pulsing red glow of cigarettes light our bodies, faces. We take care not to ash on the bed, on our stomachs, on our thighs. Salt and pepper dust piles on old magazines that tell us of the good life, of Bon Appétit, of basted chickens and creamed asparagus. I forget to notice that he doesn't lock the door.
There is terror in his breath when he sleeps: breathe in, stop—long intervals and I wonder if he’ll breathe out. But he always does. I try to remind myself that heavy chested snores mean life, another inhale, another loud, trumpet exhale. Jubilation. But then I start to worry that he’s too loud, that he’s calling out, announcing, “I AM HERE.” That he’ giving me away. I open my eyes and the room is full of light. This is not ok. The newspaper has been pulled down. Seven stars are drawn on the mirror. God’s number.
I run. Out of there before The Anarchist even realizes I’m gone. Stupid fuck can’t even lock the door.
I pick up a payphone. Call Alex. Tell him about The Poet. Tell him about The Anarchist. Says he knows a place I can stay. Is off of Manzana and Bale. Where the factories used to be. Thanks, little brother. He reminds me about blood debt. Like I forgot. I hang up; I don't have time to deal with this shit.
The house is slumped into the earth. The sidewalk is mostly gone, but whatever is left is pointless anyway, it doesn’t really go anywhere.
I enter. The door stops before it should. Pink paint and wallpaper curl off the walls like knotted wood. The floor is soft under my feet, like only the tallow colored carpet is holding it together. Newspaper covers half the window; a large cock drawn in dust is on the other half. Behind the door is a desk of drawers. The top is punched in. Cigarette ash, razors, and burnt spoons are scattered everywhere. A bottle of rice vinegar sits out of place. The carpet is matted down with large sticky patches that shine when light wanders in. A mattress lies in the corner, covered in plastic, like the kind they have at kid’s camps so they don’t get stained with piss. Except this one has been cut with knives. And I can’t tell if its from anger or boredom or if it should even matter.
I feel a soft crunch under my foot. A rat has been burned in a pile of cigarette butts. Its jaw is half crushed in, its eyes gone. Foaming with maggots. I get a head rush. I feel like I’m going to throw up.
But I’ve got nowhere else to go so I just close my eyes and put my palms flat against my thighs. This is not a good place. But it’s a place, and my debt’s not paid yet. I’ll stay the night.
Untitled
I forgot my body
somewhere between home and
this old apartment
wind harder here, snow deeper there
like a limb cut off
my mother said.
somewhere between home and
this old apartment
wind harder here, snow deeper there
like a limb cut off
my mother said.
Postmodern Sex
They told me before moving down to the Great Southwest that it might as well be renamed “No Sexico.” This makes it easy to make excuses: forget antisocial tendencies, lack of personal hygiene, or the apocalyptic horse of self-esteem: being just plain boring. Being interesting is currency anywhere, in love, in romance. Of course, it’s the lack of humidity in the air (the scent of rain acting as lubricant), the unattractive “townies” (all the attractive ones are attached in blissful, Disney-esq monogamy).
Sometimes I feel strong and creative: standing lumber legged on the mountain, red throated and heady. Other times I feel the pervasive sensuality of roasting chilies in the air—New Mexico’s personal musk. I try to remember my old scents of desire, of skin freshly fucked and glistening, but to no avail. I create the narrative of Michigan fucking protocols: one-night stands are permitted just so we don’t have to walk home in the cold. Nights huddled on attic floors with cigarettes and whiskey, pretending to be interesting and a dreamer.
Sometimes I feel strong and creative: standing lumber legged on the mountain, red throated and heady. Other times I feel the pervasive sensuality of roasting chilies in the air—New Mexico’s personal musk. I try to remember my old scents of desire, of skin freshly fucked and glistening, but to no avail. I create the narrative of Michigan fucking protocols: one-night stands are permitted just so we don’t have to walk home in the cold. Nights huddled on attic floors with cigarettes and whiskey, pretending to be interesting and a dreamer.
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