if i forget my desire
i attain its object

what are we
this flesh?
twisted and stretched
to contain all our humanity

am i not what I say i am
certainly not what I think i am
but in this midnight twisting
I am you
and you me

nothing makes sense but some things seem to
be
like the twisted flesh in the midnight

without thought
of what
are we

I can't tell what's real
Eleventeen crows
With dogs on either side
Fly by the
Empty church on a Sunday night

Cause my head's a blur
Of black dogs chasing white crows through the dark sky
Where the bark
Is my head headed

**** me
And al-so *******
I'm a butterfly
And my poem is better than yours too.

I'm on drugs
Just not the kind you think
They help me with my feelings
And keep me from the brink
Of some in-sane
Dicis-ion-making

Like wearing shirts back
To front
And in
Side out

and other things...

nothing's real

so stuck in our heads sometimes
Like walking into another room with
Windows and books on the shelf and
Plain walls

And when the walls shimmer away
hold our breath
Taken
reclaim what it is To
be
Captive

Odd that freedom engenders slavery
They embrace in us
And Chase us like foxes

Bereft
A thing to be
When all is lost
But the breeze in
Maple tree

memory is not
and how can it be
-like this corpse-
what i call
me

i am not here
i am not here
i am not here