I’m fucking James Bond—
the Roger Moore James, not the Sean Connery—
the straightedge James, not the curved—
and it’s nice to be fucking James
for once
But there’s not just me
in my dream: there’s another me,
ten years younger,
five inches shorter,
six semitones higher,
with flick-shoulder curl-tipped platinum hair
and narrow
little lips
She’s as pretty as death, but she doesn’t
want to play; she comes at me
with a knife. We fight. James stares
at the ceiling. He doesn’t care
who fucks him, two women, one,
me, her. I’d be happy to enjoy him
together, but she
wants to own the unownable—
so she slashes and spoils
our dream
Jackson 