Courtesy of Cynthia Cruz.
In Belgrade in my hotel room
I return to the self portraits
from the earlier work:
smoking in the tub
while reading
texts on the New Art Practice.
When I step out of the bathroom
and into the music
with no witness.
It still happens.
And when I whisper
into the soft crimson leather
back seat of the parked sedan,
I still exist.
I am here
even when you do not
see me.
I am here
because I say that I am.