“The politics of visibility in urban space are immensely complex and intersectional; we’re all out there navigating the streets as best we can, and hoping to get something out of it.”
“He wanted to get out of his head,” she said,
“so I told him to write about his mother’s nipples.”
My mind’s packed with clouds, dark roads, endless water. Losing names, losing facts, like a half-filled sieve. And yet the mind’s not supposed to go. I point Nicole to the elevator, and we step in.
“Poems are often these very strange moans. These very impossible efforts toward the innermost pangs. Somehow, the trying to go there gives me hope. To reach down and into. To make your whole language and your whole body move that way.”
When she was nearly asleep, she heard voices far upstream, male voices, chanting, as if from the dawn of history. Deep, primeval. The Men were performing the rituals of manhood. But the little farts in the night were nearer and dearer.