Somewhere in Providence there is a painting. I want it.
*
In this coffeeshop there are sculptures, which are flat and look like paintings but are not. Today I visited an art gallery, which is located in a building where I hope to live but many people want to live, so I can’t.
*
A baby wears a sweatshirt with a wealthy city’s name. The baby stares at another baby, who wears nothing. A man talks about oral sex in a foreign country. Two women fall in love.
*
Yesterday a woman said she did not like the pork I served. The meat was tough. In three months, I will no longer enjoy mother’s insurance. Last night, I argued with manager – once friend – about how to mix drinks for those who can afford them. He pulled an order from my hand, and I thought about a movie I watched once, about killer whales, harmed in tiny pools.
*
I want to create meaning. But I can’t. So I want.
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Once, manager sent me a copy of poems he wrote, once. They were short and mourned his life’s romance. * Last week, I thought about falling in love. ‘Again,’ I thought, then regretted it. Love is difficult, I understand, but cannot confirm. I never knew it ‘again.’
*
I love the proletariat.
*
One woman leaves another. When they kissed, I watched, pretending to search for an outlet. ‘Stop looking,’ I thought, then, ‘Stop looking for an outlet.’
*
Last night I masturbated with face cream, from the national pharmacy. It was difficult – too smooth, and there wasn’t, I realized – too late, with regret, thinking of the man who fucked me last August – good friction.
*
Without meaning: death.
*
Local magazine. An advertisement. The next holiday: ‘Couples only’
