I'm with you in Rockland

I don't want the trinkets of living.

I don't want tokens of anything, give me the thing, abstract as it may be I WILL FEEL IT.

I need no strangers to know my face.

No. I need strangers to be curious about my anonymity, and I theirs.

I don't want any glib, mercurial adoration.

I need my soul to weave strands into others, to know that my short hard time here is shared in love and loathing and laughter and loss and lonesome late nights walking in the sunrise.

I buy postcards and write "in me are the secrets to make you happier. AP" on them. I leave those in the town halls and the newsagents of the cities I frequent. I want to hope a stranger will find it and understand all the things I don't mean it to be and some of the things I mean it to be. I want one stranger to discard it, I want another to look around, worried as though they have been caught with something saucy before stowing it, and the glee it brings them, away, until they are home to take both out and know the postcard's message's meaninglessness is a meaning. and there, in time and distance and sentiment we, that saucy stranger and I will touch.

I'm with you in these wantings. You and I. Over time we will fade but in these wantings, like a den from childhood we are together, complicit, giddy.

Buy your car,house,bratnurseryhygieneholidayshoppingtv. Have your trinkets, despisable-all of them, Grotesque to me.

I want the living behind them.