Red hair. Dot. Blonde hair. Dot. Black hair. Dot. Black eyes. Dot. Blue eyes. Dot. Pale. Dot. Black skin. Dot. Similac. Dot. Puerto Rican. Dot. Second-generation Chinese. Dot. Mexican. Dot. Pacific Islander. Dot. Bisexual. Dot. Femme. Dot. Butch. Dot. Thin. Dot. Tall. Dot. Short. Dot. Sexy Latina. Dot. Gorgeous Asian woman with her boyfriend on the L. Dot. Well-cut blonde on the stairmaster at Balley’s. Dot. Girl with earplugs in front of me at Pushcart. Dot. West Indian hipster getting on the Q at Park Avenue.
Somewhere, you say, I missed the point. Dot.
The first missed connection, said the pastor,
Was that between the father and his children.
Failure to obey, my flock, failure to obey.
Skyrent. Expulsionary force. Origasmic sinsinatti.
And he pointed to the sky. And he pointed at the flock.
And his finger became one with the finger of all gods and landlords
In all times past and present and future.
Consubstantiate me, baby,
It may have been a glance or a joke an elbow touched somehow, the connection defaulted, and we went on at normal pace I say somehow, but, really, we all know that it would never have really connected because we know that what has been is always (always?) a shadow of what might have been and what might have been branches out until the possibilities are legion. Love hesitates loses its breath and realizes, before the time has come, that it has always been an old man, panting, heart murmurs, waiting for an end. It’s tired and it’s been tired and yet it hopes because what else is it to do while waiting for rest.