outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile


Last night, a couple slept in my bed; neither you nor I spooned the other's body. I woke alone, listening to the cooing twosome, the dream dissipated.


You ask, How is July in Berkeley?

Cryptic cloudy skies over a breakfast of cigarette ashes floating in coffee, coffeecake crumbs brushed off my lap. Basil drooping lackadaisically in their pots: no gazpacho tonight. And don't forget your scarf. Bring a jacket. Maybe an umbrella, too, grasped like a weapon, while sucking on bergamotes de nancy, clandestine summer melting on one's tongue, sans colorant.


We are near the end of the fairy tale, dear, and our faith in the story wears thin. . . A transformation is required.


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