Follow the Sun, 2001

Ashes cold in the basement. The last time I looked in the urn, I could smell the Chatsworth in his Hollywood. Floorboards and time, chickens and brine, lemon garlic film on the bathroom mirror. He bathes among the yellow tiles. At the end of the hall, there’s a drawer filled with pearl placemats. Over here, an open ladder in the middle of the room is a perch for the cat and an homage to Beckmann. Leaded panes, steeples of colored glass, fruit too sweet to eat, a barrel of porn and sex toys the size of baguettes. We drink from bowls of lotus blossoms but get drunk on mushroom salad and candles from the Mexican market. We have no friends or neighbors. I run my hand across his naked backside, his body hair glittering in the sun. We sleep on the floor during the day and dance on the ceiling at night; it rains cottage cheese in our La Fayette apartment, and every time it’s the first snow.

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