Barthes wrote of jealousy as bourgeois and common—
but there’s nothing common about my jealousy.
My jealousy is a boy soldier strung between Koreas.
My jealousy is Daniel Dennett dreaming of angels.
My jealousy is a terrorist singing to his timebomb.
My jealousy is the garland around Judy's throat.
My jealousy refuses fakery; how can it be bourgeois?
Roland be damned, you know nothing about jealousy.
Jealousy is a madman screaming at Mona Lisa.
Jealousy is the Twin Towers as a blockade of cinders.
Jealousy is a child shuffled like mahjong pieces.
Jealousy is Mother Theresa's refusal to be forgotten.