Welcome to Your Wish List Tomohiko NakaoCynthia Arrieu-King
For this next thought, I wear the white crash helmet and jumpsuit of heady speculation: A name I saw on the computer screen. I grip the helm of my imaginary speedboat cutting the clean Pacific thinking of you behind me in Japan, Tomohiko Nakao, ass being packed into a Kyoto subway car, late as hell, my crucial and unmet friend choking down pristine rice where you could not possibly be, since you were just here in my damned library seat trying to buy a book on-line. I saw your wish-list exposed when I put down my keys. I know what you have been through by virtue of your interest in foot yoga — the book you picked about how to demolish the garage yourself. Your wish for a transistor radio to listen to late at night is my command, as is your wish for a calendar to keep track of your days as is your wish to go back to something you dreamed with no thought of me. But, Tomohiko, you were so recently here where the fabulous Olympics of wishing can lead to the land of the distraught. Whatever you added to your wish-list cannot possibly eclipse what you really need — what you actually longed for on your grey ride home from this cement building.
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