Why is it that corporal reality
never gets any easier to understand?
Because I've just told you that
I will be extricating mine from where
we both live, and, whatever it
means, it is pretty ridiculously hard
on both of us.
We are not even together
anymore,
and yet the idea I cannot
simply go
to where you are wears on
the fabric
of my already delicate and
already
schizophrenic mindset (read:
psychotic).
And then there will be times
when, on a sunny, parkday,
all I will be able to think of
will be days of red wind and
cheese and the chatter of a
park full of conversations
that mean next to nothing
in comparison to your talk
of Godard and my prattle of
the importance-both from a
journalistic and political point
of view--of Hunter S. Thompson.
But fuck them and everything
they're talking about: you and
I were there, and that is pretty
goddamned important to me.
I guess saying good-bye-
when accompanied by
physical distance-can't
be much more difficult.
