Images and imaginings from our trip to Romania last October. I am the girl who can't choose whether to keep walking or stop and admire the absurdity of it all.
The lucky American girls are not hairy
and the men they dance on polka-dots
but I can't speak about you anymore--
your confessions of ignorance
declaring, declaring, declaring that your body's really you
you have the new face, the coming face.
I did not know until you walked away
you had the perfect ass.
The killers in high places say their prayers out loud
for me and me alone.
I want your skin to fall off
my skin
for something to happen
the wounded forms appear
it don't matter how you worship
as long as you're down on your knees.
It is my greed that you love
and other forms of discipline.
This is the work of the highest pretension.
Take its broken waist in your hand.
Keep me
hard
in some hallways
where love's never been.
You were famous
your heart was a legend.
Are you happy now
that no one wants to undress you
and the remote
lost somewhere in the bed?
