photo by Jeff Clover

Dear Japan, Dear Ambient Author, Dear Oh, Dear Trans-
figuration Boy, Dear Chemical Girl, Dear Fiber of My Fire, Dear Big Red Scarf, Dear Halloween Buoy,

Desire and lists. The idea of me—that hash-marked outline that universally precedes me by mere moments—writes this to you. I trust it to say everything I want to say, although rarely in the order I would hope to say it. Burn yourself without burning yourself. After all this disturbing time I’ve learned to like California.

Make me into your—.

I am contumbled lists: immobile butterfly building, hand town, hand-to-hand town, butterfly more building than. I am recursion, something says.

I am captions: My afterimage shortcuts through a hungry wind farm, unharmed. Deciduous neon messages on white grass. The earth’s first words. Semi-organic things we’ve used for shelter. Still life with red gems, supermoon, and blood-fiction.

I am modes of transport. I am a stamped envelope containing only a mirror. I’ve spent all this time in California, all this disturbing time. After all this time away with you I’ve learned to like disturbing California. After all this disturbing time I’ve learned to like California, but all I’ve really learned to like is time away from you. The desire for an elegant longhand like you have. I want to list all the things I plan to steal from your future self—the one I picture seated beside me on a train. Beside me on a train hurtling toward the first time we are to meet.