And the two shall become.

My favourite thing in the world is a half-finished idea.

Catwalk.

It is the month of November. In it, the cold air of morning cracks at your jaw. The glamour of picking up after a dog next to a schoolyard is helped by a group of little girls with painted moustaches, who lean against the fence and agree among themselves, "That's some fine looking fresh poo, right there."

It is the month of November. In it, the late night bites at your neck while the rest of the city sleeps. A woman with a leopard print fur coat appears, smoking outside her stairwell as you pass. You each say a brief hello. But when she looks down at the dog, she greets him with the slow syrup of seduction. "Hello, gorgeous."

Bloomsday.

The sixteenth of June. That is how I know you best. L. What steps were those that fell. What are steps? Marking some steep precipice, edging toward, or against, or away from arrival. I never told you this, but I think of you as the streets of Ulysses. I never told you because, still, I can not decide whether I am walking your streets, or whether you are walking mine. Leopold Bloom. L. Some stringy metaphor, but one of metonymy, a book that spells out some epic, some daily epic, where each day awake requires a return, one to recall, to relearn existence. And I know your each return. I know when you walk my streets, because you make a different sound on the sidewalk. In the forever of an epic, we walk towards each other. Our steps are wrapped about the legs of one another, their course of bones, their coarse surface. And I know you know other streets. I know how you know them, how you have enveloped them into your habitus. And I think you know that how you live, while that body lives, you will always bear the marks of my mouth, my print, my footsteps. My writing. Our city.

The everyday bursts. It leaks, honey, the wet melancholy of truth. Every day a return. It turns upon your every day. Each is a day of birth, and in each a rebirth of myth that shapes the arches of every step, heaving against the bones of what is knowable. That piece of knowledge is laid out on velvet cloth. Parcels to weight the clock of each day. And each day, the sixteenth of June.

You fit into me / like a hook into an eye

Gestures and words and postures can be lines that ring a truth, spun close with care or too loose with less. But beneath them all may be a truth that snags onto your sinews and floods your hollows. We replace it with talk, though while all those lines are cast about they furnish a case, preparing for its demand to be unbound. I held one, some few nights ago. I felt a slow truth rushing into my corners. It was a warm hand pushing through a window. A truth, one of myself brought by another, or no, of another that brought me myself, or both. Truth, sewn from desire. One that slips along another's movements, their bend, the curve of their thoughts, the life beneath their voice.

Strange, that desire reveals our truths and, once revealed, enhances that desire. Its needle makes a puncture in our geography. And, once there, it is all you draw from. So much that, when another makes their turn towards, the moment explodes in you and the world freezes, hot about your neck. That unbound moment comes when they look at you, if they look at you, their eyes open on you. Black caves to crawl, with flecked mountains of glossed brown mapping towards their center. But only when, if, they are looking at you. I had some thing to show, but the eyes were not there. Under a lamp there was only dark hair and a light shoulder. Some few nights ago I sat outside a moment that was not mine, hooked to what I was unfit to climb. The truth held around a corner, and I only spoke days later, but only to myself as I circled through the cloud left in my house. In our pooling quiet, we plunge closest. Words circle a well.

a fish hook / an open eye

Words circle a well.

This man sat low inside the doorway and leaned against the glass wall. There are strange panes. Those windows that span a whole story, a kind of nothingness that somehow holds against the weight. I was walking past him to the bank machine. Next to him was a beaten cane and an open sack, packed with things I could not see, but atop them was a half-eaten slice of pizza on a greased paper plate. I nodded, and he looked out the doorway, and on my way out I nodded again.

"Cold out there," he said. "I'm not going out there. Hell, I'm waiting for the bus, I've been waiting for an hour, hour, hour and a half. You seen the bus?"

This city seems to run only a few buses in the night, with less people wanting to move around.

"I can't walk in this. This city wants me to die, but I won't. Ah, I don't know, this city is always making me wait. I've been pushed right out of here. First it was all these Indians, and now there's rich people everywhere tearing everything down and telling me it's not mine.

He coughed, the sound of a long, snaking string being hurled from his lungs.

"Me and my sister, you know, we own half of this city. We used to own everything from here up to the railroad, the station, and then north. That's all ours, and they're all acting like it isn't. And we're going to get it back. She's got kids now, and the kids are going to get it back for us too. I've been waiting years now."

He swore and muttered. I told him I hoped his bus would come soon.

The excitation is due.

Finally, she had that dream where her teeth fall out. Standing in a courtyard, a square block of sun burning white bricks whiter. She was waiting for something to arrive, staring past the courtyard to the drive. And to the sound of fountain water falling, her hands shook and her teeth wobbled out, their fall and tick on the bricks drowned out by the endless patter of drops in the pool.

Her face fell off. And what she was waiting for arrived then, a dark car with black windows. The sun slick on its paint and drooling over its doors as they closed behind a pair of shoes. Her clothed knees burned against the brick as she tried to peck her teeth, and her fingernails scraped and nicked in the cracks. But there were too many for her to hold.

When she woke, the soft of her jaw against the bed held clenched and hard. She loosed it for her daylight. Though, "I had that dream again," she said after the next. Teeth falling out and hanging loose. Her face fell off, and she wanted to know, did she feel it anymore?

Ananas.