Daniel Allen Cox, that’s your name, I said it when I introduced you
Daniel Allen Cox, you didn’t have to say it when you introduced yourself because             I already knew who you were.
Daniel Allen Cox, your lips
Daniel Allen Cox, your shiny shoes
Daniel Allen Cox, your eyes, at the reading, Brandon Will read a story about eye contact, how sometimes it’s creepy or else it’s the best thing ever, and
Daniel Allen Cox, yours wasn’t creepy
Daniel Allen Cox, your camera phone
Daniel Allen Cox, your photographs, your shit and ephemera: A giant eyeball, a bumpkin sale, a taxicab under the WOOD WORLD sign
Daniel Allen Cox, inside your pants
Daniel Allen Cox, 8 motherfucking inches inside your pants
Daniel Allen Cox, I guess I must have read in an interview that shit was down there, but I forgot
Daniel Allen Cox, but boy did I ever watch your crotch to see what you might be packing
Daniel Allen Cox, I could go home and google a picture but what fun would that be?
Daniel Allen Cox, I’m totally lying, of course I already fucking googled it
Daniel Allen Cox, are you asking me whether I jacked off?
Daniel Allen Cox, your stutter, I am trying to figure out how to say it endeared me without making you either tragic or exotic
Daniel Allen Cox, I told new narrativist Kevin Killian I had a wicked crush on you
Daniel Allen Cox, I’m still not sure why this crush seems best expressed in working-class Bostonian slang
Daniel Allen Cox, my boyfriend thinks I’m hilarious
Daniel Allen Cox, it’s because I suck ass at being in an open relationship
Daniel Allen Cox, you see what I did there?
Daniel Allen Cox, I tried to slide in a reference to open relationships all artfully
Daniel Allen Cox, because I wasn’t sure you knew that’s what mine was
Daniel Allen Cox, but that kind of art is shitty, that art stinks, it smells like shit
Daniel Allen Cox, because it’s fucking dishonest, that’s why
Daniel Allen Cox, my boyfriend thinks it’s tiresome how I moon and never DO
Daniel Allen Cox, I am actually writing this poem for HIM, so as to be less tiresome
Daniel Allen Cox, if I were Kevin’ Killian’s wife Dodie Bellamy, I could transform this crush into a gorgeous gossipy text
Daniel Allen Cox, have you read her text The Letters of Mina Harker? It kicks some fucking ass
Daniel Allen Cox, when I write my text, I’ll appropriate yours
Daniel Allen Cox, I’m sure you realize a porn star is mostly the viewer’s projection
Daniel Allen Cox, so is a crush.
Daniel Allen Cox, so is a text.
Daniel Allen Cox, I get hooked on crushes as narratives
Daniel Allen Cox, I narrativize crushes
Daniel Allen Cox, I crush on narrative
Daniel Allen Cox, my addiction to crushing runs as deep as my addiction to narrative
Daniel Allen Cox, Dodie called hers a new narrative, but mine feels pretty fucking old
Daniel Allen Cox, because my crush on you is not substantively different than my last crush
Daniel Allen Cox, my last crush was on Sam Merlotte
Daniel Allen Cox, Sam Merlotte is a fucking character on the HBO vampire soap opera True Blood
Daniel Allen Cox, Sam Merlotte is not a vampire, he’s a shape shifter
Daniel Allen Cox, Sam Merlotte shifts shapes
Daniel Allen Cox, Sam Merlotte can turn into a puppy and lick a person’s face
Daniel Allen Cox, can you do that?
Daniel Allen Cox, actually, there is a difference
Daniel Allen Cox, because bodies matter
Daniel Allen Cox, I mean bodies ARE matter
Daniel Allen Cox, matter leaks, matter smells, matter groans
Daniel Allen Cox, Kevin Killian said you seemed quite “taken” with me
Daniel Allen Cox, to GET taken makes passivity an action
Daniel Allen Cox, you said my thighs are for doing something
Daniel Allen Cox, I say my thighs are for taking.
Daniel Allen Cox.
Daniel Allen Cox.
Daniel Allen Cox.