Stop asking me what photography means. The dead ones and the ones who are still alive.

They do not become indignant or outraged if I call them whores.

It is what they call themselves.

Only normals get their hackles up. Stop asking me who the normals are.

Normals are beneath contempt.

Normals are categorically disingenuous.

Normals have no reason to live, but they just go on and on.

The normals’ titties get all tight and gnarly in the winter.

Just pinch my pumpkins purple.

We were all snowed in. So I decided I would work on my photographic libraries.

I have twelve libraries of thousands of photographs.

Kids. Lovers. Dogs. Parties. Beds. Cars. Bikes. Islands. Deserts. Cities. Skateboards. Streets.

Acting up. Acting out. Acting for one camera or another. Oblivion.

The living. The dead. I’m a whore so who the fuck else am I supposed to know.

Stop asking me who I knew and know today.

A lot of sun spilling through a lot of windows.

The razzle dazzle of the unexpected. Art. Who says it’s art. I do.

How do you explain a photograph.

I put a lot of it on Format. I put a lot of it on Instagram. I do not tell you in either place who is dead and who is still alive.

Why would I do that.

Where is it written in my job job description that I am here to inform you.

Most whores are both dead and alive.

Dead Caesar brings bad news again.

Soldiers and sailors by the negligent.

Stop asking me to make sense.

Maybe you thought you were reading something other than poetry.

But I never entertained the idea I was not writing it.

I am always writing it.

Get over yourself.

And please. If stuff I make (this means sex) sends you into rabid, foaming at the mouth fits, don’t send me email, GO READ SOMEONE ELSE.

Honor. Love. Obedience. Troops of friends.

Your tongue in my mouth creeps in this petty pace from day to day. A borrowing.

Stop asking me about the dragon and his wrath.

I make all my tricks take showers. Necessity follows but for form.

HIV was fucked, but it was always hunger that hurt the most.

I publish pictures of my handsome sorrows and I write about them, too.

The old hotels and then to breakfast. 

 Wanton boys will sleep past swim, and polaroids to dance in dust and begin again.

Stop asking me about fate, chance, tongues in holes, and ships and shoals. Just stop.

Stop asking me to tell you who they are like lightning.

I do remember how they tasted. Like a urethra tastes of vinegar. The Lower East Side Is Less.

The equality of princes. I am involved with mankind and mankind is his death.