Power Bottoms Make Requests

And what if we had met in New York City, passed on the street, it's not unfeasible, it's necessary to acknowledge we've walked the same streets, prowled the same thrift stores, woken within kilometers. I've always wanted to be a British tourist. A power bottom, the active section in the T.J. Maxx where they sell my brand of underwear. I'm wearing someone else's this morning to bed. Tied in red. Red desire is repetitive. Accretion, selection, sigils on my feet. Miss Monica on the bed beside me, my new sheets, the highway through my window, Mount Sentinel, western Montana, governor upset about palladium, new, marathon, road racing, lust, stampede, Pamploma, martian art appears on all the telescopes, when were you in the city, lust, when were you opening words like cans of tuna, those websites I want to read about how poetry is becoming a small, tart, clotted cream, open orifice, open sesame seed king. But really, we must have been there, geographic, vicinity, mapping, arranging perception like kings. King me.