Me, Leonard Cohen and Kirk Douglas and Pants

Me, Leonard Cohen and Kirk Douglas, three middle-aged Jewish men, two of us dead, decide to re-enact the famous Raphael painting of the muses called The Three Graces. We’re naked, of course, Leonard shows his butt to the viewer. Dear reader, I know you’ve touched his perfect tuches with your mind, many times, even though it’s sagging, grey haired, dead and a bit disappointing. All that corned beef, maybe. Kirk and I are full frontal. We’re holding apples. For scale. Kirk, originally Issur Danielovitch, changed his name to get into Hollywood, and eventually he was Spartacus. My grandfather changed our last name. Cohen was always Cohen. We compare chest hair. I have the most, though it’s not the greyest. We compare penises. We’re always comparing penises. Kirk’s is the oldest. Ring the bells that still can ring, he says. There’s a crack in everything, Leonard says. Hey, I’m wearing something diaphanous, I say. 


A deer drives into a parking lot. It desires nothing. It’s my voice. I’ve been looking for you. Yeah, out on a joyride, now here to buy pants. Later, parking spots turn into breath. My voice full of venison and wheels. Fog and knives. What I desire, the deer says: An on and off switch. My thighs in lake water. But I’m wearing pants. I’m always wearing pants.