The carpet is green.  In some spots, damp dark like summer grass.  In other spots, more lightly like the color of newly unbudded leaves.  These are spots, each one is in the shape of a cloud – that is, indistinct melting away.  Along the edges.  These spots, all jumbled together, each one having an expanse of no more than three or four inches, all jostling up against each other, bump bump bump.  Spread long and wide and rectangular over the surface of the floor.  This is my carpet.  It stops at the wall.  The wall chops it off.  Steeply.

The carpet is flat.  It is very, very old.  Like people who, when they grow old, turn thin and bony, their skin dry as dead leaves so carpets grow old.  My carpet is thin and bony.  It's all squashed down, matted, unkempt and there are stains, stains, some large some small, some shaped like an amoeba, or a broken circle, or a streak or a splash.  And there are burn holes too, hard black little pits where the live ash from a cigarette fell glowingly to the carpet, melting it with a hiss.  But mostly, my carpet is flat.  Was there ever any padding beneath my carpet?  It's all gone to dust, dust, long black streams of it, long ago (I know, I peeked).  My carpet is inert.  It lies with its cheek pressed with even weight against the hard wooden floor underneath, everywhere it looks in all directions.  My carpet squeaks it bleeds out old creaks, it oozes moans as I shift my feet.  Memories.  My carpet is green.

When I look at porn and masturbate I look always at a single image – a picture of a man.  Around that image accrue fantasies, some of them very long and involved, whole stories unto themselves, with multiple episodes.  They are fantasies that can be rehearsed, perfected.  They can be edited, they can be controlled.  Every word uttered, every action taken can be studied, thought through, manipulated, to better elicit an excitable response.  It exists in the brain, this perfect world, whatever its origins.  It services psychology, this perfect world.  It is a garden, this perfect world.  It still has mystery and so, intrigue and delight.  It knows my carpet, this perfect world.  So I watch it that carpet, I watch it close.  I monitor it.  I know it knows my feet, this carpet.  Little flakes of me are scattered throughout its fibers.  They grow old, they disintegrate as the carpet disintegrates.  We are disintegrating together.  Turning slowly into dust.


There's a cum rag on the floor.  A cum rag is lying on the floor.  It's a torn off piece of old shirt, bright red.  It's a splash of color.  I think inside my eye.  A little fist of color, I absorb the punch.  It bursts inside me somewhere in the vicinity of a universe, black and dusty with stars.  Inside my chest.  Not in my heart.  I take it in the chest.

Two cats hover at the edge of my sight, one sleeping at the end of the bed, one flopped lazybelly-up in the middle of the hallway.  Others hover at the edge of my mind.  Flittering, fluttering, a mere something a motion a flash of light and me always just a second too late.  One I almost feel in my arms, a momentary pressure of warmth and weight, litheness at rest.  Another soon trots at my side whenever I travel from room to room as yet one more somewhere twines back and forth between my legs, casting glances at me over its shoulder.  One dashes at my feet, then rolls out of sight.  Pin prickling claws I feel as one stretches up to catch at my thigh.  This is how angels.  This is how angels this is how ghosts seaem their way into existence.

I have had more cats even than lovers.  I have loved more felines than I have men.  This is where they go when they die, to memory's mind.  Angels, they live there, hovering just behind my head, flexing between my feet, flashing in and out of sight.  And what of the lovers.  Banished, locked away, ghosts fucking ghosts every one of them.  I condemn them, I condemn them, jailed for life, now they wait only for the sweet emptiness of death.  That hungry kiss.  That suffocating embrace.  Come to me.  Come/cum.