• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 10


    You might wonder what I’m doing here, out so far beyond words.
    Words stopped with the last signpost miles ago. And, as for me, well look at me—a silhouette: perfect, phallic masculine. I look like the sort can’t end sentences, who’ll drop a word like peyote, whose drawl stretches out so far each word could straddle Texas.

    Say nothing.
    Just look at me. I have been designed to be looked at.

    Evasive, I’ll slip from the eye, posed like I don’t care how I look, which is no less a pose, offering some affordance to the verbal. So tell me what I am. I need completion. My feet, for example. Do I have any? Am I wearing—what—cowboy boots, high heels? Are my jeans straight or bootcut. Stockings?
    I might be taking a piss.

    Slim: my girlfriends find me insubstantial. They overspill their tops, they bulge against their jeans. They’re looking for one who feels things deeply but can’t say. Girls are too much. I am not.

    The only thing better would be a soldier.
    The only thing better would be a gun.

    In the desert nothing is masc or femme. I can’t come back from here, can only dry up, go on, into this land that might have cactuses, or might have nothing. I’m facing this valley like the sea; each grain of sand is faceted. To describe each of them would take an aeon. You see why words are useless here.



    In the meantime I’ll let your dry words stroke me: a gigolo photograph. What’s best is a guy—like a girl—who looks like he doesn’t do it to order.
    Even when he does.

    Who told me to stand here? Who took the picture? Even music—so far beyond words it is called something else—needs a listener. This instrument not being my body, I could both play and listen.

    That is, if it it was even my guitar.