cubicle

macrodosing eternal love

Glasses perched, on faces, they make you more square, I said, like a PHD, a real candidate, or a spokesman, someone with status, i said, and i mean real status, I said, to me, you look like someone who thinks about things, I said, and someone who people listen to, i mean someone who you would want to listen to, and when I say that, I mean these people want to REALLY listen to you, I said, about things other than yourself, because they trust you, really, to know about stocks, or to know about fluctuations and, ups and downs and, I told him that he looks, well, like he looks like he knows about 

books, and had thought about 

his philosophy, and could argue, really, 

if he wanted to, really,

with people who disagreed with him, and with people who were, frankly, ignorant, 

or just hadn’t had the time, really, to read as 

many books as he had read, or at least, as 

many books as he had looked like he read, with his new oval-frame, mahogany, silver-accented 

Glasses, which made him look candidly intelligent, like a professor, architect, 

Accountant, consultant, secretary.

I met him at the urinal, and we phased, quietly, in and out of bathroom stalls, men’s rooms, sanitary stations, brownstone apartments, 

bars, libraries, 

and we told each other small things: facts, pieces of knowledge; or even concrete details; like one was the other’s journal; for small thoughts, and to document purchases, to write down grocery lists;

‘I want to fuck you,

baby, 

I love you, I miss you,

I can’t imagine

life without you,’ 

written in indexes, and

the dusty canvas spines, of

stumbled upon books, 

encountered, second-hand,

in used-up, good will, flea markets.