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when stomach says: "you are told with erosion
that empty is to be filled."
to fill, to fill with what? everything with words because
emotion emotion, a feeling so because words told you so
for disorder to play with order,
but no? what’s between?
another morning, then.
later, then.
when things fall, they always will
will they always fall?
they fall willfully, always

when the spaces between teeth is not enough
to contain what’s oozing in:
the edge of a back,
the corner of an ankle’s ***,
bile black belly,
no other place devours like home
so we ride. on the back of things, on the side of the things, on the subway, on the seats with no cushions in your car. that flash flood. thundered silently with no sound. I ride on your back, twisting your spine like a can opener. always on the edge of things, you. you who run round the roads, through forests unpaved. reminds me of that movie: birds cross above your chest as you heave through dead leaves, dying leaves, dying sun, but only for right now. you don’t run anymore,though i wonder the sounds you heard then (other than your heart beating). your heart beats differently now than before, in your temples. you pray in your temples, in your cortex, in your brain sending nerves to your knuckles. chapped lips, chapped words, chapped knuckles. kissed between the mini valleys of your finger’s rooftops. thought the ceiling collapsed from punch, not fruit, but punches on pavement. no skeletons in the closet except for a hole in the wall. we fell into it.
"you’re mumbling up pulp again, babe.
pick up your head."
give up that ghost that vibrates between quiet hands loud words
and think of the foaming fingers you left on the kitchen floor
roll them at me in between eyes,
I can smell it on my mouth mopping the floor with your sight
"frightening isn’t it, clementine?"
shattering keys
leaving keys in
locks and beds and shelves and waking to keys in loopholes and
a headache
like the swelling of a wave before he crashes back into himself
back into the shore line of his face of
uncertainty, uncertainty
the tip of this wave
into a sea of
uncertainty flinches
at outstretched hands whose fingers greasily echo
fingers mothballs under the sink
keep telling the rusted problem
stir it around with cheeks like plastic spoons
but a body like a jack knife
but my back cocked like a gun
my baby is back,
always talking about something unless head first into something else
although I’m never quite sure of what.
with refluxs of regret
by bumming cigarettes,
kisses, even myself
"let’s get stupid.” and  i do.
a haze of carnal avoidance  
wagging the finger,
blurred, curled, wagging at me
bubbling up like our own private pompeii
just a phase of the moon,
more like a perpetual elapse because
while humming orange lullabies,
he sleeps with the belly of the beast
and his foaming fingers remain on the floor
a dance of dizzy precision
vision clipped like the moon
with no hindsight, with  no foresight
with "business, as usual"
i cannot bear to swallow
another one of your highly reactive
chemical reactions that
bursts out of the stopper
into temporary moments of anger
reeling bait like words
hooked; gumless and bleeding with splintered steams, then,
you speak to me
of  treaties, of proceedings, of compromise
you do not what compromise is
i wonder into your open mouth
why you pull away first
you plead for being
drunk on inflation and an ego like a broken thumb
cause you was craving a drink and a hit
for no reason
sipping up liquor leaks from
the roof of your mouth
like raw running yolk
purging pallid spaces between the jeans and the belly
"business, as usual"
a business of
dropping numbers like flies
but it will not matter
the difference between 89 and 98
10 pounds
plummets into a mouth of some savage beast
who gnaws away at my bones ******* the meat
i stand calcified
without collagen,
I will keep feeding the beast, today
Today, a kink in the rhythm of some machine
whirling, cranking, spitting out
blades of a tongue pressing stealing into inter
locking steel
Startled, I awake to “business, as usual”
i cannot flex steel tounge
i cannot push flesh down
i cannot comprehend a home that should be
how it could be how  
home stitched up home stitched scars
a home with the worst air pollution in new york
how this effects me, no
how you infected me, yes
now inhaling your ash to my lungs in pipe and in sky
drowning in layers of pollution in the sea of home
drowning in the sea of my mouth
drowning in a mouth like a seagull beak
plucking bread crumbs and scabs
almost drown when i was 10
in that great south bay, sleepy pollution
now, i turn 20 and i stand drowning in sea of the seedlings you planted
how could i be so moldable?
how home would infect then?
it would seep chest and toes and space above my brow
14 deep and 7 to disintegrate
home imprinted on skin now
today,today  i will feed the beast, somehow
I ran like a head on collision. A car crash which you don’t look away, like a bicycle crash flung over the handles. Pondering then, in that moment, why I didn’t wear a helmet. I guess I didn’t have a thought to think about that before crushing my skull on the pavement. I wonder in these instantaneous moments, why you pull away first, before knocking the teeth out. Gumless and bleeding with remorse. Things that have foresight, but maybe no hindsight: an example would be falling on airbags like a grenade. I read once, somewhere, that 290 people were killed in 28 years by airbags. I wonder then, before flying into the sediment, if they had the same feeling of regret (or maybe confusion) when something supposed to save them, killed them.

Flaccid airbags, then. 1 to 2% of frontal deaths are caused by un-deployed airbags. Try to imagine the surprise before hurling through your windshield: “but? my airbag?” We can never really rely on anything, I guess, except for at 12 to 18 miles the airbag might, should expand. Marshmallow cushion, cotton ball fuzz clings. A white christmas dressed in harlot red; a sin of plain bad luck for those people. For me, it’s ignorance
I should have worn my ******* helmet
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