If it’s ever possible to 

go back in time

I’d like to slap Picasso 

in the face

and I will resolve to never be happy enough to forgive you 

Today

I came to realize that almost all men I slept with

can be summarized as 

Charles H. Hughes

and you did not do, you did not do

but they voices could all worm through,

as Sylvia Plath would put it

I cannot remember a single day

I didn’t quote Sylvia Plath 

The doctor asked me

what I liked doing

and all I could think of

was tearing down wallpaper

or licking another person’s spine 

A sort of walking miracle

I try to explain

every moment in my life

through Michel Foucault

and I was scared

that nobody else does this

while I let another body occupy me

momentarily yesterday

The doctor told me that

my blood is fine

and I can’t believe her

as permanent concepts grow between

my hip bones

Gentlemen, ladies, the big striptease

A guy I once fucked

offered me drugs yesterday 

while another one

diagnosed me with

borderline personality disorder 

Both had their right to do so

Also I realized that I will never be able

to claim that I have touched every inch

of another body 

and that every emotion

leaves tiny neurological damages 

If I’ve killed one man, I killed two

The vampire who said he was you

The doctor tells me about

techniques to regulate

my emotions

and I wonder if she knows

Foucault’s “History of Madness” 

and about her sexual prefernces

Two days ago

an old man in a bar told me

that I am tiny and beautiful

He was drunk and eating soup

and there was a raw triumph in 

his loneliness 

Since then I identify 

as old men’s words 

There is a charge