My city suffers from penis envy
and renovations. All I’ve had
lately is a bad idea.
Nostalgia seeps like Italian oil,
like orthography, like oafishness.
Ghost résumés fill with nominations
and almost there. Almost, like a
double darkness, like the lost art
of loafing. It was, always and everywhere,
the same. They think all I do is
drink and whore around. They’re
overly neglected. They’re no less real.
Imaginary is no number, no value.
I just need you to fight it for a minute,
just need you to move your life. We’ve
all been on that sketchy bus ride
through down-and-undertowns.
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