November 3rd, 2005
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A poem written on the back of my neighbor’s gas bill envelope, penned while riding the train
What is beauty? Beauty? Beauty?
What? What? What?
It’s the Georgia black coffee can in the gap between cars one and two of the local to Kichijoji.
It’s the mother with her daughter and friend, whose high leather boots and short skirt I coveted, no, longed for; in the way people long for release, or vindication, in the way without consequences that doesn’t say “pedofile”, or you are wrong.
Beauty is five years old or ninety. It’s just an icy shaft that rends my heart asunder, gasping deep oh deep “but only?” …itches why are we so blessed with such toylike purity? Touch, touch never to touch but to dream to gasp and oh why yes? I am too fortunate to exhale on such a lovely, black-jeaned morning.
Deguchi wa hidari desu.
Yes Yes Yes Yes!
Get out, get off at the left side and run to your lives, so beautiful and delicate, wives and daughters, mothers and children. Every one so unaware of the inescapable accelerating beauty diffusing from inside lonesome hearts searching for release [relevance?].
