Published in Everyone's a fucking poet! 1995
I would like to introduce myself and say a few words about my experience as a pair of eyes & a head of vague ideas. Everyone says that, I know. Everyone has their own dream about speaking the Perfect Word, showing the Perfect Face, having the Exact Change for the sullen bus ride home. I won't even try to offer you that, though secretly I'm always courting the Fates, searching for the Perfect Charm that turns their heads in my direction. I would like to take off my clothes and stand naked in front of you all, without embarassment, your attention focused like a spotlight on my genitals, jealousy or laughter flying around the room beyond my control, and the discipline to feel at ease with my own body, still hoping I don't get an erection. I'd like to leave this stage, later maybe, and go back into the world of unclean things : people tainted with OEdipal complexes and death instincts, objects soiled by words and names, events washed in blood and misinterpretation. I still believe in the real world. I still believe in telephones, depression, music, constant enlightenment, a nod of the head, wink of the eye, and imperfection. I want to smile to myself & feel understood. An improbable desire, I know. I don't even understand myself. Almost never speak as a pair of eyes. Did you conjure up the image : a piece of vision engaged in poetic dialogue? I didn't think so. I'm a literary failure, but I won't stop talking. Exposure is a form of protection.
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