these are my own words
JE SUIS
I am a Jew.
I am a Jew in Outremont.
Who gazes down to concrete and tar instead of up to your eyes.
I am the quiet you hear on the streets when they are full with people and sounds but all you hear is alone.
I am the Geisha, walking down an alley, you look into my eyes with an imperialistic stare, and we have just found art at a reasonable price. For our apartment, that is somewhere.
I am the nervous in her laugh, "Hurry! Ha-ha! It's about to rain."
I am your white dog.
I am your white, feathery haired dog who is looking in, but also looking away.
I am the clear gel in your cartilage that is wedged between your bones and joints.
I am these potatoes roasting on St-Viateur.
I am the singular one.
I am the one that is so round, and it is water-colored in pallet tables of chicken breast.
I am the one who can smell it baking,
baking beneath the flight of headless, withered birds and through the greasy, fatty-splattered glass.
I am you take care of me,
I am you do not take care of me; there is no difference in what you say.
I am aware of that.
I am aware that there is no difference. Period.
I am an equal number of red balloons and blue balloons carrying up on helium your cum dried on towels, socks and handkerchiefs.
I am covering real, geographical miles.
I am the ginger rhizome under your feet - I grow to produce not flowers but roots that look like flowers and are awkward above your soil.
I am the red plant gills gasping for sand, taking in short invalid breaths of air, blood-soaked slits gaping down at the earth you tread.
I am your next step, but am not part of your next step.
I am you have put me in this position. Where I am.
I am you will never help me out.
You do not have the responsibility to me as I do to you.
I am you want to talk to me at great length; I talk to you at great length; I will help you.
What can I do for you? I am at your service.
When you have time.
I am the hand that is rotating the fur, diner-ticket, guest-receipt carousel hat on your head. Over easy, wheat toast. grape jelly.
I am your order is up.
I am you slipping your request in the white waistband of your apron.
I am the noise as I ring the steel bell, with the same hand that spun the shtreimel sable wheel that is on your head, today shrouded in clear, unorthodox polyethlene. It’s raining.
I am in the brown-bleeding eyes of the boy who hands out brown paper bags of French fries at Lester’s.
I am the orange yarn that flickers pink and red when you twist it around your fingers. Like sparks on lovers’ heels from sand colors.
I am I will bite your lip and make it bleed and scab.
I am I will lick your nipple and make you almost beg for me to stop.
I am you were so close to telling me.
I am I will find that spot in you wherever you choose to hide it. Moreover, I will find it fast and press you there.
I am something that happened in 2006.
I am no one else thought to look.
I am only your back and never your stomach or chest; I am only what you like and never what I want.
I am the great white under your craft, I am your sole homologate.
Let my word carry you over.
I am dead. I am risen. I am rise again. I am gone for now.
I am gone for good this time.
I am sick and tired of you.