“Why am I a destiny?”
             —Friedrich Nietzsche


I know so little of myself,
even less of them,  
so I’m stunned
when, in a dream,
I taunt Nietzsche,  
on my knees,
calling him “the little minister.”

He doesn’t want to play,
holds his temples in his hands
like his head is a Fabergé egg,  

or a soul, not that I know  
anything of souls.
On all fours, I can only cry out  
a long, ragged neigh, stomping
and violently flinging  
back my head—a horse,
whipped into terror,  
his front knees buckling
and suddenly praying,
his mane trembling.
A steam rising

from his wounds.

I know so little of my desire,
but I feel base lust
for Pasolini, who’s been crying,
muttering, “I repeat,  
all sex is ironic.”

He’s wearing a black cravat
tied so tight his face is red.
When he tries to loosen it,
he gets erect, and cries some more.

It’s all too much
for Nietzsche and me.

          We embrace in a long kiss
          that seems to answer
          every question we’ve ever had.

Alone in the house,  
as the lights slowly rise,
Pasolini—in staccato,  
ironic claps—applauds.