Known

If Nabokov had known me, he would have written about how charmingly the sweat glistened on my mustache after I'd come in from running outside.

If e.e. cummings had known me, he would have written it was

oh
so
Brand(new)
ev(er)y ti(me)
I went
in(si)de
:
)

If Leonard Cohen had known me, he'd have written of me plainly enough, his Bathsheba that could never come clean.

If Walt Whitman had known me, he wouldn't have wanted to fuck me, but he'd have written about the thousand voices in my mouth, the dots that made constellations across my back, the "I am the center of the universe" and the "everything else is the center of the universe," both of which I contained.

If Charles Bukowski had known me, he would have written about how timid I was while his mouth gulped at my tits and that he loved how he could never smell the whiskey on my breath but tasted it damn near every time.

If Jack Kerouac had known me, he would have written that the deep dusk was never dark enough to cover up my hot mess or the or maybe and the turmoil in my green eyes that were small, voluminous, loud and begging for all the hands of the world to touch them at once.

Think how I'd have done them all and left this world with literature. 



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