Friday, February 14, 2014

Untitled

The most magical thing of all was his hair and
her hand, when she pulled it out of his hair, her hand 
long minutes later when

she lifted it to her nose, in the bathroom, in front of the 
wavy mirror, and could smell his hair. She could smell
it: It smelled like alive
and like him, and this was nice. It was a warm
welcome reminder that he was in the living room, on the couch.

It was a nice reminder of his aliveness.

She liked the warm greasy smell of his hair,
and the pale, soft feeling of his stomach (skinny, rib like
a long flute, carved strangely)

she liked it all and was glad he didn't die.

He told her, that's the thing
about ashkenazi jews/ we have iqs that are a little higher
and bodies that are falling apart.
It's the inbreeding.

It's the love affair. It's not on purpose. And his last name
(which doesn't seem so strange) nonetheless dies with him.

He said it hurts very bad because it feels like death, but
he's not afraid of death anymore, and grabs every day by the balls.

And he said that classical music
is the only thing that makes him cry.

In Berlin, listening:
to one soprano, and one piano,
"I cried my eyes out"

it all felt good that night, really good, and
more like home than most places. It felt very
likely to thrive, and she wanted to be the woman
sitting next to him.

In the theater or, on the couch or,
wherever- "You already know two ways to control me,"
he said.

She sunk her tender claws
into his hair again.

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