If privacy is dead then intimacy is dead
Privacy is dead and Intimacy is dead
If intimacy is dead then why do I still lick envelopes in earnest, wanting this to go somewhere and be read aloud while a soft tear smudges the type
If privacy is dead why are we laced with dopey lies and angular honesty
If privacy is dead then lies are dead
If lies are dead then intimacy is dead
If intimacy is alive then intimacy is dead, I dread it so, my best skill
If intimacy is alive and dead then I'm still not getting it together and getting married and doing all that bullshit I said I would when I licked the envelope, I was high and paranoid then, everyone mistook it for eagerness
If privacy is alive and dead then I'm still not passing for white like the guy with the quieter nose and more blithe yellows, if privacy is dead then he is dead to you
If he is dead then intimacy is here to act out his absence in the nearness of his former myth to your fantasy, he lives on
If privacy is dead then show me everything you've ever experienced, but show me the feeling as substance, volunteer for your own interrogation, show up naked and in tears, ready to bleed and go hungry for your pettiest secrets, while already telling them in the squeals of reluctance, it's taboo to scream.
I'm a threat to the union because I don't believe fascism or the mock adolescence of famous men if privacy is dead then why not spend the entire show behind the iron curtain while a huge audience watches attentively the empty stage which is covered in rapidly blooming magnolias that wilt like opinions when you touch them and are just as supple as your true heart in the moment when terror approaches ecstasy and you look away disinterested—if you say anything enough it becomes a lie or careless or a mantra or why I get up in the morning and tie a blindfold around my eyes first thing, first gesture of awakening, ready to face the day
