I am naive
at your suggestion
and just because
I order
a cold plate
of rice, of beans
of tongue
sit there
impatiently
hungry
in heat
tropical, sublime as if
my genitals have
nested
in wet velvet
when...
your hand rolls
the length of my
(inner) thigh, you
make cigars,
from tobacco-
tinted hairs and golden
paper,
there is no need
to lick. here
things stay sticky
the cube of ice
sits, sizzling
out of existence
on the tip
my tongue
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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