Jon Leon

They call me an American poetry bad boy. The groupie of the grotesque. Because I move like a mist, seeking the border that seeks to contain me. I stand at a metro platform, my life's possessions in a bag the size of an attaché, and catch the blowback of a life encased in the tyranny of pulp. A pulp novel called Soft Thighs written for adults only in the year of the stag. I throw down the book and finger the tear in my lamb's wool sweater. The sweater that smells like the jade room at a Korean spa, like the ambience of finery worn by the whole of the zeitgeist.