Is this meta enough, Noam?
Reading this writing in Louis 649, over scotch, over my leg,
over the fact that we’re twins or something like it?
And even my legs smell like scotch.
Even that rose I pulled from the corner of Avenue B and somewhere near your closed Vietnamese sandwich shop sounds like a cymbal flick, or a cowbell. Remember, the beginning?
I will tell you the beginning, the secret, the way in which I obscure everything I write anyway.
Let’s walk backward through the map of our New York history.
Uptown and downtown are destinations, not places.
Marriage and engagement are queens, not aces.