I was thinking about the way I make love, and how love comes of it, but nothing else. The heavy futility that makes my limbs start and halt and want to drift to sleep. And I think maybe sleep is the enemy. I have been lovers with my dreams so long perhaps I cannot really belong to anything else. Maybe I lost my heart in the land of nod and now it's been carried off by some eagle, dissolved like a sugar lump in a cup of coffee, turned into a green eagle-stone, buried by pirates. Wouldn't that be some brave booty, some tantalising treasure? One pink pumper carved out of eternal longing and sacrificed by its own self. Like the aztec curse. Like my anorgasmic body.

The only thing I get when I crave it to any degree like satisfaction is sleep, and I always have to wake up.

Last night, I had insomnia.

Last night I dreamed so long and hard.

I dreamed, to be sure, but I hardly slept. I always dream. Like those daytime soaps that do not end, empty calories that always leave you wanting more. No wonder I attract many, and cannot keep One. I cannot be satisfied, I do not satisfy. Like my ravaged, thin body, like why I like the thick ones. I slake my thirsts and my hungers on meat things and fat foodz, and my body quits before I am satisfied. No slake, no satiation for you. A few glimmers, and that is all.

That is how It keeps some of us, the ones with our tongues lolling out of our mouths, the always wanting, the nearly there, the almost. Desire, I mean. We will never know our names, barely taste our heart's desires.

There is always something, more.

Almost there.

Nearly.

<<agé chose>>

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