My feet are soaked because my umbrella doesn't cover the open toes and my hands are bloody because I was clumsy today. My professor looks like he belongs on a motorcycle with some sexy young man. He sneaks drags from a cigarette hanging limp between long, dark fingers. Guittari studied with Lacan and would have turned 79 today if he didn't die 17 years ago in France. The slim frame of your shoulders stops my desire in its tracks when you turn to me with those vacant screened eyes. There are boys hidden in closets during the 18th century watching older lovers act out infant role-play and offer their breasts to men for nourishment before Freud sucked on his first cigar. Fassbinder cries and his lover curls into him, two men cradled on the ground, squirming like wrestlers or the severed ends of one worm seeking blind comfort, stranded in puddles far away from earth. Imagine the difficulty and the desperation of a worm curled in the gutter 3 meters from grass. "No one lives the story we all repeat to one another." This is how I live.

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