by Denis Johnson
Here in the electric dusk your naked lover
tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.
It’s beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,
Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,
streaming with hatred in the heat
as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin
to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,
and such a last light—full of spheres and zones.
you’re just an erotic hallucination,
just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,
are you serious?—this large oven impersonating night,
this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,
the bogus moon of tenderness and magic
you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?
I’m off for surgery in a few days. I’m getting a lot of stuff done on my face. I feel very, very anxious.
It’s an unusual challenge, being me. But isn’t it for all of us? I’m hoping for smooth sailing in the OR and smooth integration of self back into reality afterward.
I’ve always wanted to be real. It’s a lot, being me. But I love it, too. And I think things are going to get better and better. I think that hope–the hope of real, of better–is what’s sending me to surgery in the first place.
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