They call me an American poetry bad boy. The groupie of the grotesque. Because I move
like a mist, seeking the border that seeks to contain me. I stand at a metro platform, my
life's possessions in a bag the size of an attaché, and catch the blowback of a life encased
in the tyranny of pulp. A pulp novel called Soft Thighs written for adults only in the year
of the stag. I throw down the book and finger the tear in my lamb's wool sweater. The
sweater that smells like the jade room at a Korean spa, like the ambience of finery worn
by the whole of the zeitgeist.