It is so hot in my apartment that I soak my t-shirts in cold water and wear them dripping. I make small puddles on the floor, but everything evaporates quickly. I like it when the dust from the gutters gets ground into my bed sheets at night, and my days seep yellow into the mattress. It is evidence that I am living some kind of life.
The night Lou Reed died, I was at a sex party in a Manhattan loft. As erections brayed like seals around a circular bed where two women slid and licked across each other, 69 kilometres away in his Long Island home, the guy who wrote Femme Fatale and All Tomorrow’s Parties had just lost his battle with liver disease at the age of 71.
They contained us, we, I, in their bellies, blood, and water; constrained us tight as seeds in the cells and in the breath. Before the splitting, the infinite doubling, and now I hold them all, a rabble of ancestors, pressing up from inside against my skin, and too, I contain the next generation, if I wish.