The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1998. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

Guggenheim, you said
trailing your fingers
down my chest
touching the belly
that I normally
don't let anyone
touch.

Guggenheim, you said
I've been wearing
a Guggenheim
t-shirt
for three days
you said
You never said
why you were
wearing it for
three days, just
that you were.

I have my guesses.

I like to fantasize
you being dirty,
being sweaty,
wearing the
same clothes
for days at a time
simply because you can.
Simply because
it lets you
smell yourself
and it
reminds you
that you're alive.

I like to fantasize
your dirty hair,
your stained clothes,
bedroom heaped with
stacks of books
and rumpled underwear
and dirty dishes
and empty
chinese cartons
half-finished
poems
lying
on hardwood floors

Guggenheim, you said
touching my knee
on a black bleacher
at a music club
listening to
an all-girl punk band
Sometimes is the time
to externalize, you said
and sometimes
is the time
not to externalize
you said

I have my guesses.

I fantasize
smelling you
as you grab
my cock
and force it inside you
I fantasize
your dirty hair
in my nose
as you drape yourself
over me

I was not a Belmont girl
you said
I was a Belmont girl
but I was not a Belmont Girl
you said

I have my guesses.

I fantasize
internet
pornography
photographs

I fantasize
your naked back
against my white wall
as I stand
on my knees
and thrust myself
in and out
of your mouth
one
of your hands
to my anus
one
of your hands
to your own

I don't know
why I have
these fantasies
about you.
I don't know
why you wore
a Guggenheim
t-shirt for
three days.

I have my guesses.

I fantasize
kissing your eyebrows
I fantasize
the freckles on your shoulders
I fantasize
fucking
with Guggenheim
t-shirts
on our chests
and nothing
down below

Here's my number
you said
You wrote it
on a scrap
of the
New York Times
I don't know
if you want
to fuck me
I don't know
if you were
trying to
get rid of me

I have my guesses.

I fantasize
New York Times
on hazy
August
Sunday
mornings

Mornings
so hot
we stay naked
all day
and
fuck each other silly
on the sabbath

Mornings
so hot
we plunk
ice cubes
in our coffee
as we fight
over the book section

Mornings
so hot
I actually groan
when I get
an erection
again
but know
it's time
to pray
again

Guggenheim, you said
touching my chest
scribbling in your notebook
drinking your red wine
I've never been
to the Guggenheim,
you said
What is it like?

I have my guesses.