Wading through the Rubicon

Afternoon, Tokyo. A big red car called Rubicon crosses my path. What exactly did you win and die for, Julius Caesar? A nightmare in which a lesser woman wins a grander prize. Wait, I was awake when that happened. I spend an hour reading Seneca to try and forget my jealousy. A fantasy in which a greater man settles for me. His feminine signature on the forms. A lesson radiating through history in slowly expanding rings. Apollo, take this gun and whip the sun to pieces. Morning, Tokyo. So many passerby in the crowd. Spittle in the imbroglio. Molecules in the storm. Staring into faces and thinking, uncountenanceable countenance. Reading a magazine article about death. Watching a world champion perform and crying like a firehose into my phone. Make no mistake. I know how you would opt to describe this, but my love for you is not maternal in any way. I do not simper. I do not whine. I am not obsessed with your presence and your absence. My love is unstructured, undisciplined, inhuman. I…