Thanks, Cadaver!

But he is my favorite of the living, and I don't know what is sweeter, a thing or the remembering of it, or if the remembering makes it so. Minds and times, and their wasting. He knows of the mental checklist and he must be stopped! Except he is so so, and not like comme-ci comme-ca, but like so every unfit word that is meant to represent a single golden drop of the milk of his human kindness. I am: that young, swooning girl in any movie, that is swept off her feet and falls in love forever, or whatever part of forever is ours to call forever, that believes in his smile, in his eyes, in my eyes as they are as he is before me (go back and read it carefully), in sexual nirvana, in jigsaw rightness, in the follies of a narrowly-parametered adulthood. Because he springs up for me, like for a mayfly, and I'm just trying to be good bait; an important part of his food chain. And I will never forget our cloudy afternoons or our cold evenings up against the backs of cars, so long as I live, hardwired, now, like breathing, but helps me survive like breathing never could; to know I was loved; that I was that for you. So take me to our places, and order up good food, and enjoy this one shot, after you take a hit and a drink, and I will sing for you, on film, for posterity, for you to remember me by: our soft film reel quilt of blinking, flashing, wrapped in your smell, stitched in our taste, pieced in your silhouette, battened in my warmth, in your profile, in our shadow, in the reverberations of our laughter: the worn satin corner of our eternal, mutual comfort. Me: remembering that you were more human to me than anyone I have ever known and now, what would I do?

I would absolutely swim in the Gulf with you.

My Real Eulogy (cat-colored and almond-shaped loves hazel and knowing)

How do you thank someone for their time? Brains, and their wracking; hands wringing, parts, squinching. Here, look, a video game. Come, come now: hold it down, press it on, work it out. That's what you do, Baby. Como se dice: lidocaine + sea spray + silicone + sand + some quanta value of flesh/faith/love/chemicals/trust = public perverts.

I don't mean to write cryptically, but I need a release from the analytical grind, from the Power Pointlessness and the endless Excel-eration and the whoreporate Priorities and ... the faustian People? They wear me out. Fuck every last one of them. Except the two I made and the few I like. And the one I do literally fuck: my sweetness and light, like honey, but much stickier.

And I like to think of him all sticky, sticking around, sticking it out with me, hanging out with me, speaking to me: in his halting Spanish or French, or fluidly, in Cracker, or the way he looks when he's bouncing on his toes, completely naked, when we're on break or just looking for something, like he's about to run a race. He has no idea.

Do you? You have no fucking idea. You silly thing! How my physical heart glows for you? I love Blogger! I love email! I love simplicity! And I loathe anyone who would so much as look at you askance. I get homesick for you on my commute, for christsakes. One time, I walked on an empty beach/former subdivision and watched you exploring in the setting sun and I traced your initial in the sand with a seashell and I prayed, the way people who don't pray pray, that you would fuck me on the beach until high tide washed us out.

Let's get really, really fucking stupid rich and go down the rabbit hole and never come back. I will find a way. Just keep sticking around, longer.