this goes out to all little sisters, big, little or tall, small too. She crunches ice cubes in her mouth, wondering if it's bad for her teeth, she bought another ice cube tray just to get more retreat from underneath the heavy petting that's only fifteen years past early bed wetting, it seems, oh my sister, don't give up so easily. Boys are just...so 1 out of 10 decently pleasing. I can only name two or three that practice chivalry in a blizzard, suffering for you quietly, waking up early to turn the water on so it's hot when you wake up early to go to work and you'll be showering. Don't let the things he buys full or fuel you, too much money means he'll be expecting things from you that you work harder for yourself.

If I could write the perfect letter that could set the trend for every boy you'd ever meet, or who'd greet you on the street, I'd probably be better leaving this letter alone. But lonely we, we're not just two he and she, we're you and me, and when he brings you home past the time you set for yourself, speak up and tell him how disappointed you are. You can't let boys set expectations on the things no one else gets for free. You earn being trustworthy, your curves are not just a place for his hands to go, make him sit on his hands and watch you flip your hair into curls without mentioning how physically beautiful you are. Your beauty starts with the passion you take with you to the ungrateful students you teach day in day out that you never tell them how much you're disappointed, it carries itself around the brown paper lunch you bring so you can save $7 dollars a day to take a trip to California like you've been promising yourself you'll take since before our family was bringing us back and forth to the OC. I bequeath you your sheath, now use it wisely.

Sister remember that boys will say anything and everything when they want to be physical, but nothing they say is emotional. Don't let anyone convince you to do something you wouldn't even do to yourself, don't let yourself be treated any less than what your fantasy brings your eyes to sleep like when you were too young to count and I sang you to sleep with the numbered keep of sheep.

Remember it's better to complain about not having the boy of your dreams, than regretting you let the wrong boy into your jeans. Beautiful is the way you were born, and it's easy to point out what's obvious, so invest in a boy that's interested in more than whether you keep piercings under your clothes, or whether you let your sexuality be too undercover that you can't even e

"I know your vexed great spirit, miles away, a gentler more playful you thrives on a journey of life. There among a ridge, the plateau where you dance, leaping, ripping yourself out of the air,escaping towards the light. Free from the weight which chastises and locks you up. Out of the medicine cabinet quaffing your deepest breaths, urging your hours shorter and shorter. You cascade like glass buttons scattered on the desert floor, let those wet cloths be forgotten, may your sorrow disappear amidst that great arenose simoom.  When the ghibli makes you stutter before the bright outlook you once displayed, do not forget to visit the flowers that bring you the most  peace of mind"------------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------ It's here. In the pile-ons, wrapping around your head like a cool, wet bandage, keeping out a headache, or the rancorous guilt of an ugly night. It sits on the top-layer of your forehead, beading off in fresh droplets of self-pity, uncomfortable and self-defeating restlessness and despair. I rub it with my hands, removed each new wave of desperation and soothing your hairline with a swath of my hand. I raise up, your cucumber colored walls, that bright pink bedspread, nothing different ever changes. The masonite paintings still there, that old familiar **** carpet, a thatch-work of menage-a-tois and fifth grade-style arts and crafts. The light bulb has been out for six years, third drawer right-side down is still stuck, a mystical blow dryer blocks it closed, and the door won't ever quite close- I take a shower with the world wide opened and you trailing a fastening steep. And so your fever rises, your feet soak in a tepid iron clad bed frame while your mind rattles against your skull. Thirty days have past, lifeless, echoing in this wicked upstairs chamber. The West Wing. Slatted blinds, the white dresser, the Chanel books, the pool party photos, the blue swim-meet t-shirts, the fake gold trophies and the true gold hairs on your head, my fingers dash across your forehead again meeting your brow with the cool folded washcloth, I reach for your back and you turn, slightly rolling; something routine, unsteadied, even wicked limps in a stress ball inside your bottom lip. It's just a quiver. Nothing different ever changes. It's the devil inside, and I am nowhere to go. Maybe midnight or maybe twilight. Every hour of morning is another hour of night I'm ever taking my sleep back into. I don't count the days, just mark them in the thoughts of worry that flurry through in brief thoughts. I am obsessed with care-taking now. Three hours have passed since I showered you out of your black party dress and sparkly Gucci slip-skirt, since I took bits of post-digested food from your hair, held your nose with a tissue and told you to blow it all out, again, another night of building a sick room and sauna. I never tire, I just make arrangements, I build a small room and I wait the weight out. Nothing different ever changes, and I don't expect the unexpected or dare to meet your smile again.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------ Three months ago, thrifting on Valencia and 26th Street. Walking from Blue Bottle to the Bay then to the Breakers. I climb atop A Buena Vista with man Adam, you scale a mountain-sized hill with your teal green and cherry red Nikes. We make a photograph in front of white dogwood blossoms overlooking a steep Ravine to the East. A bird chirps, a homeless woman barks, and four children smoke cigarettes and joints in a treetop. Every ***** goes up and down, each footstep dithering amidst our biduous ascent. I buried you last Thursday beneath the dogwood, your cherry red and teal green gym shoes planted at your doggerel.

How impersonal is this.
Noxious, transfixed in the gloom, like a mother rehearsing a duet of gifts of chicken pox. Serriptiously presenting to us

Your indigo crystal aura spins through the meteorites and rock matter
Creamsicle wheat, gold aura'd
The golden freed, guild and greed appealed. As if

from up the causeway of some starving and scary ghosts. If Shel Silverstein had ghosts their ghosts would be still too decent.

In the tired eyes of friends and their declarations- I have no cyn to give nor cywm to live. Tired am I of breezing through narrow rills in Hidden Creek the obvious spillway ditch of our not even near immortal wealth that weighs on the souls of the outlying suns.

Realize that active sight, only breathes from active mind.
And until today I never realized that I don't mind child. My child
My sweet sweet child of the radiant and crimsony misty blue and white skies through divine amber and aurulent lights, that twinkle acrosss such

Incredible sea-green and robin's egg blue colored ocean sized eyes.
From these Ides whereon I've drifted supine, lost, scattered and random
In the weeping tide's of Alice's watery eyes.

the world is a world it is a word and it spins spinning, spinning, spinning, around and around, and this is the world and it spins, spinning around and around and we are here to see it, to see it and watch it spinning spinning around, here we are watching the spinning, the world, it goes around and around and around, spinning

Let me touch your skin, your skin your skin, your skin is so white, the whitest I have ever seen the whitest I have ever seen, white like the snow in the mountains, the mountain snow, so white, so clear, so snowy white like in the mountains, and I want to touch it, I want to touch it, let me touch it. You are like a *****, your skin is filthy and you are disgusting, so disgusting, let me touch you.

How I love your hair, your hair is amazing, it is so long, it is so incredible and so amazing and beautiful, it is like great big rounds of silk and satin in a great round, let me touch your hair, let me touch your hair, let me put my nose to it, let me put my mouth and lips to it, and my face to it, I want to breathe the same heavy awesome air that you breathe, I want to taste the same air that you have found. Your hair is like an old carpet with stains, let me touch it.

This is the world, here we are, watching it, we watch it, we watch it spinning, it spins around and around, and it will go forever, it or we or it will go around and around and around and around, spinning, and we will be here to watch it, spinning, spinning, spinning, around. You are like the end to the day that lasted forever and forever, never ending, but now it is ending, and the day was never ending, but no more. And the earth will spin around and around.

There's no news of this spider
But it's poison rings this dinner bell.
Inside the crater of a dimple
Where the temple inside your collarbone
Holds fresh and newish gods.

While the supper tongues are out
It's best to eat the living before the dead are all died out.
This isn't a vampire factory w/ere running after all,
It's the hot new comas of afternoon laboratory parties,
synchronized swimming in a bedroom on top of the covers
but under the softest comforter. She swims sweet laps to the strokes
Of every keystroke and every vowel undone, and every finger unglued.

Sensational curiosities of quarter-sized universes of human love and human flesh.
Gentle insane thoughtless violence cured in time's long sluice of betrayal,
Rancor, then betrayal, and then the frost. Never did I hear the twigget of the synthesizer max its flare.

Every mouth was a warship, the plumes coming up over the top of the spigot, sampler of the Neverspoke. Worships them, in the Hectares through the dross, the incumbent conflagration

Envelops life from venom thru a stra.  Into the hutch the creeper shakes, like the

Dearest. The canopy alike. A breath, it walks from my lips and into the quiet of this desert. I am only eyes The infinite mind. Inflammable and still up in question. Life burns up the soul of man like nothing else. There is only the space between ego and humility that matters. My feet tread lightly, the mirth of my moor, the hill where I rise in the day, every day I climb awake and champion the music of the sun, its billions of hearts and eyes. Two years younger and I thought I owned this. Beauty. Love. Where does it come from? Out of the pages of a book or between the bindings of its casing? This mesmerizing charm light splitting the lines of my hands and my feet and my face. I wear it with me like a child's toy into the city when I go, the country where I sleep. I prayed for your wellness, took you by car into the pastures beyond the mountains overlooking the ocean, into the high points of the low and verdant valleys where the cows and horses fed on fertile grapeleaves and wild grasses. Nearly the wind took us to sea. Hot sand beaches where we laid in low tide and let the water spread among our limbs until we couldn't tell where you ended or I began, where our breaths tasted the same. I make you in my hand. Eat you from the tips of my fingers. One is the beach and the day, where I prayed to let your weight never be taken from me, that I should carry you through the softness of the sea and through its shadowy empires. Man becomes invincible, his beast disappears, only the blue of his eyes remain. The black of his pupil is the oil that makes us all the same. And the round world floats its children through its kingdoms so that they may eat until the sunlight touches their eyes again. Your hands on my teeth, in my mouth, against my head. I could not have been closer unless I lived inside of you. Time takes all of the words out of history and leaves only the faces and landscapes. A glint of redolent flower that swept through the air, or a hot meal that drew the day long. I am only your eyes. Blue and green. The jazz of you in my spine, against my chest, your hands piercing through my chest past my ribs and holding my plum red heart in your tiny fingers, upright and firm, sharing every breath. The sea that is my sister your brother, that is my mother your father, that opens the soul and lets the sky blue sky weep its tepid orange sunlight deep into our pores. I am never richer nor poorer in the milk wet silver light of the winter moon. What would you have of me to do? A walk of bare feet through the pinetum? An antiquary in the empire of romance?  So many hands I have brought to my face. So many words I've took to my pen. These are the names that take me from you. The space between insatiable lust so many states far away. I dream of your crown of gold on a Saturday, we walked Goethe in the Summer, seven months and fifteen days ago.

I'm in Space, the new mute planets I'm praying my feet will make their home. Inside a platitude of evolution. Where are the real breathers? A vocabulary doesn't make expert writers of trite and frequently used dactyls. Words and artificial sweeteners precede and postpone the myriad attributes of this season's abundant human inequality month.

Your dry shampoo rocks my world and my nostrils love it. Dawn's Spring birds are quickly disappointed by the inconsistencies of the mediocre business model. Lies and dishonor admidst affluent and educated consumerism. As if ugly was a viable reason to lead a resistance against conformist gestapo tactics of suburban play soldiers.

4:09am with Lemonade & Judy. Still w/o honesty or compassionate understanding. The squash and zucchini are up too early and our Chialet specifications may or may not be included in the rates for opening up the Walgreens mouth much too early. Dishonesty is far more expensive than blood letting prose length to carry the diseases out qually

where do you go when you lay your head to rest;
upon the laurels in the canopy of breath,
or to wildwood thickets and entangled pure excrement of excite;
your supine tenderness blurs the lines of tremendousness
into the minds' concupiscent forlorn worlds,
Worlds for new Words, and tinders beautiful blues while
the light's hum their tremulous cries, and the majesty of woman
reigns hero and heroine, mused and amused, in the qu'ues of real crimes

what all makes us feel so alive

this is where our adventures begin to warm up, they burst diagonally, stretched seams. Opened wide, blistering under this caustic and virile heat. The epicenter of someone's bi-polar anomaly-

swarms of words and their words
people coming and parting,
coliseums and amphitheaters in spectacle
garnet, draped in praise

as upsetting and down-troche of what those blue sapphire lumens grew
against the pale and sinewy shadow of shape flickering,
violet cartoon faces bruising up their faces in the pulp and pulchritude
where two separate identities meet and coerce the familiar into seeing

at what it conceives. The diplopic opera and didactic vapidness in
the horrendous aperture of the inexhaustible and mercurial sport.
Then to see as the other half lives, compartmentalized in the
curious cabinetries of disorder

My heart is bestowed again.
Returning to the room I see her nestled
In a heap of a  super soft blanket,
The burrowed belle in an ethereal dressing.

I would never sneak or speak or break
This gentle and harmonious blessing of
Beauty and majesty so bountiful. The amour
Wand has blessed us both, I only wonder if
We both receive the spoils of the miserly.

Miserable no more. My lips swept by sunflower-colored
Gold canvas blonde hair strands, wet with shower water
From a departure excited by her own palpitations.

My  only nightmare is sweetness. There can be no sign of
Hallmark gestures. No buzz of cuteness or cleverness.
I may only sew that which unfolds as a stain. As someone special
She must never suspect nonsense. I may never relay it. And still Between everything that has happened between us.

She only needs three moments to be soundlessly asleep.
Me I may weep but she keeps in the alluvial grave of
Sleep I continue to induce for her, tracing my finger around your
Earlobe. My pinky swipes the cool white

When at first it happens I want none of it. I even say no. I discard the plane tickets, the train stamps, the envelopes of money into a safety deposit box some train station off The Embarcadero and just head East. It frightens me, I'm horrified. The potency is developing in my inner organs, I can't cough right, sleep right, I just suffer and complain. Instead of doing things differently, they've made it so you can soak right in. Just strand yourself on the side of the roadway and they've got rules for you too. The sounds are torturous, the rooms are empty, and the men grow complacent and empty. Nothing is as serious as this. Four years ago a car, three years ago a plane, now I just shuffle and complain. I search for a key to my happiness. I look for it in desktop monitors, caramel apple lollipops, new cashmere vanilla candles, consuming six or more bottles of water a day, E-Cigarettes even, even those, I use apple juice, lychee nectar, mango sorbet, and chocolate fudge sundaes. I'm 40 up on the 140 I went down with. All the miles I'd walked in a firm step, a fever, a bag full of cheap wine for a man that works the car park. 43rd between 8th and 9th. Every thing is bright lights and theater nights. More pacing, there is gum stuck to every square of sidewalk, men and women wheel around a block away selling discount drugs in the streets and outside the Subway on 44th, in the Chinese food mart on 7th. They blow blow blow in their little plastic straw tubes and for $12 a drop they ask you to reach your hands inside their pockets, "take what you like and leave the rest. No one remembers it like this, the girls laugh practically upside down, they wear sky-blue light dyed denim overalls, covering all the parts of their shoulders but exposing their ****, they have plastic bags in their boots, and cute bobby bobbing hair cuts like water crest shoots exploding in lime juice. They pace too, but their legs are shorter, their conversations longer, the horns in their heads grow slowly out from midnight. The devil put the hate on them too.

Even the children are bigoted in this bicentennial. The ******'s nook is no longer the sewing shop in the corner of the strip mall up by Deerbrook Mall. I haven't seen a fountain with change in it since the 80's. The newest thing I heard about imaginations are that, "They come out the first and last Wednesday of the month, you gotta check with Game Stop if you want to pre-order the right ones." I think we must be on number 18 by now. There were four of us riding shotgun in the boxcar up to the valley last month, now they don't even run the trains anymore. One third of everything left to go.

I'm growing quiet; if they can't tell it's not my job to teach them. If they can't spell, I ain't gotta word to word combat that's going to come down on 'em. My brain is so uptight I can't sleep before sundown or sunrise. I see legs and oil futures with every blink. I listen to the old phone messages constantly. I make up stories to go with the missed calls. Still I hope everything will work out okay, because nothing is as serious as this. It makes me sick. It makes the guy undo itself with a brass nail, the blood unclogged from the rash from last month, I find out I'm toxic to poisons, and then I'm told that they're a prescription for that too. It wasn't a ******* rumor. The time to back up or move is now. A idle figure in an orange shirt, a tapestry that moves with every hallucination, forty, fifty, sixty hours I've never slept. I may have been years. My stomach is rusting from water with nowhere to go. I feel sick. I feel woozy, but I don't believe in feelings. I sit upright because I'm uptight, I turn my head around and look over my shoulder. But I know that any friend that's worth looking at me wouldn't arouse my spirit at this hour. There is a net that they speak of when everything's gone. It's the madness that transforms nothingness when the devil's around. Whole empires are crashing. Whole bottom drawers of unworn clothing, tagged and abetted stuffed into black crape garbage bags and drove off into the moonlight. I'm sweating and soporific, living half by half two in and two out, if I had the chance I'd try to remember just which way I get out. When I check on the rumors, when I say my goodbye, I know that I'm the only one sitting in this room of cocksure spirit animals and half-plastic book casings, and that no one whispers and no one cries, not even the bereft can produce a lullaby. I am dying to figure out how to move voicemails from iPhones to iTunes, I googled it while sitting down in the city last night. Poor service. 10 months. Not even one blame the famous few.

After tired comes guilty, after guilty the shame, after that apathy, after that I'm awake. I've never been good at being better than me. But those voicemails, I want them somewhere permanently.

Martin Narrod [Chicago] to Adam Holzrichter [San Francisco, via NYC]*
June 26 2005
Guild Printers Press
122 Bedford
Brooklyn NY, 11211*

I peeled back the polyurethane bandage that wrapped together my two toes where I had dug them into the armoire once again last night. It's a raggedy old mess of green goop like your brother had when he returned from Sicily. Those posters and solipsisms of war, how could we forget, right?

The scene here is really frantic. There's a whole room knotted up with tea heads, loaded up on benzos, looking for green doves or any of the MDMA that came through Fulton Market last week. Mr. Popular is revealing any details, though I expect he'll want more than his own hands throwing around his dining room furniture. I count three days since I heard them through the wall, but I did go out yesterday for a brief walk to buy an 18-pack of ******, just in case I decide to come off the drink for a bit, I do have a blood disease you know that right?

Noon

It was about a month ago, I was at April's house, and I had woken up on the couch, standing up I felt a bit dizzy and realizing I hadn't had a drink of anything for about 12 hours I pulled a Red Stripe from the fridge. I shucked the cap off and put down nearly half of it, it was that cool Jamaica that rocked me man. As I was headed back to the couch I could tell something wasn't right, and that's when it all goes blank- they told me I had suffered a grand mal seizure, sister, brother, and April standing over me with Ouakimbo there too. He gave me those sterile gray straight eyes and a thousand yard stare. Then he popped right up and grabbed my wrist and held it. They put me on a cornucopia of blood thinners and muscle relaxers, it's grand, just ******* grand. I make a fist and my toes wiggle, blink my eyes and my tongue comes out. There is nothing truer than this humanness I now am enjoying. 2 days more they say it'll be before I can go back to the pen and our flat. Geoff just had a baby I read in a post I saw today that Ashley brought in, but i tell you. If you don't bring me a dollar slice from Jack's on Metropolitan you ain't gonna have any of this.

9:00p.m.

First it's cool down the back of the spine, like my bones have unhinged themselves and are resorting their positions to suit a more comfortable order of things. But I repeat, I REPEAT with all SERIOUSNESS. DO NOT TAKE ANY HALLUCINAGINS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES - Perhaps I have not explained myself too clearly - Guy is at the ice- the onlyu hope now is some morphine. In dealing with these underwear midettttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­tttttttiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiotttt       vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv­vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv­vcccccccccccccc.

Morphine & Cola, Mrs. I can't believe I told you this is, so exacerbating I Can't sleep; even this weather riles inside me as we weep. There wasn't Anything that'd have shown you. There hasn't been a single sprout of Showmanship, or the erstwhile philanthropy that needers' raise their Eyebrows to and to. This is the degree we know it. The subtle afterglow With everything that you've known, and while the snow settles on your Window sill. While winter rime binds its ice to the wheat, and every soft Little seedling sewn, whispers its final sentences before autumn while it Drifts itself to sleep. There were the cards and the faces of Jacks among Aces, places uplifted by China dishes of porcelain overflowing, like Tencel in socks, woven into the pockets of trousers. Where does the Mischief go while it certainly isn't ours, and the dandy light across your Temple bares a gleam.

Some things are enriching, but yet too sordid to stare at. While the game Is enriching, the pain is too much to bear, and whether in vain or *******, the likes of you, make these lips of mine much softer against Your finger tips. Tips of fingers, petals of flowers, baskets of fresh bread Baked with wheat flour- follow the noon bird, fancy a sit by a brook, and Listen for the whistle-less, whistling of a rook.

Grey is quite golden too. Like the same tencel that I've used, or the silken Web treated to a loom, like lightning bugs out for an early dance on the Afternoon. Seldom as moss on sidewalk path or the pangs of laughing Heart at mass. What does the new bird bring? The bride of this coming Spring? For every sugarcube we taste, we save ourselves from second Base. Dr. Narrod with a gentle touch, the inspection you love so much. The gentle morsels smoothed upon the hand. The girl-like woman with Her ewe-like lamb. "For all of you who wanted them 808s, can you feel that ******* bass. For all of those who wanted them 808s, can you feel that ******* bass. I like the way you move."

count the ewes and the yaffing
leftover aoudads  discarded
at the beginning of combat step
the radical isn't that radical, anymore
pritchett curiosities amidst the syphons war
the drum of chaos rattles the pinfold
circling the leftist right

You’re in my guts
Pictures and all
Until I rush to the toile
And adhere your redolence
To my nose

Outside I’m in another state
Another time another place
My fingers sampling your abs
Your lips, the cool air outside
The Jaguar. The way your father spoke
To me. Until, until, until.
You tease me back to sleep. Please

and the shores turn to fruit roll ups
the ashes of vibrant colors explode into the eyes
over long legs and arms, longer than psalms

until pleasure undoes every bad thing that's ever been done

hello poetry, can you put me in the mood
give me your sacred anthologies
your oceans and rivers too

human insight seems to fail in everyone I knew
like painted sandcastles on a gravel beat
a song lyric draped in Princeton blue

don't hoard the cadavers from both of us
this is one right you cannot undo
licorice rope to tie the knot, in the coma you've slipped into

your words fortify the strings that tie my heart together
and with your regular field dressings, your mindful dactyls
pruning the excess fat from my anguished droopy eye; perhaps
it is tomorrow that is young and I will never know your fingers
on my face or your face upon my fingers. These are the gelid slopes
where the tern's claw decides our fate. Woman's Fugue emblazoned upon
my sudorific brow and overtly outstretched limbs. Every day is heavier than the last, and the latter brings unfaithfulness between the

[on the verge of a cry]

Darling penguin,

you've brought me here yet again. whether we writers are on the page of paper, Moleskin, notebook, website, or smartphone, here again you have brought me. Having just lit another cigarette, drinks and drugs and smoke and music are in this place you've brought me with these ***** fingers pounding away into a bluetooth keyboard as the long lonely nights I've taken to find you melted away the keys of my computer ash and burnt plastic have taken to so many letters: H, command, I, R, and D too. I have a fixe and it won't be cured alone. I've been on so many lines and numbers, and I keep trying, and I'll tell you some people might consider these women absolutely marvelous, but to me, they too often prove to be nothing more than the hollow engravings of tales told too often, and where am I with you?

I'm cracking my knuckles again, and it's so ******* hot in here. Morphs, subs, percs, and oxys, pain and agonizing pain. And I'm growing a beard and mustache, very soft hair for you to nestle into when we move into the house in Evanston. I've been touching my lips with these ash stained fingertips drafting your lips upon mine, while the piceous nexus of this cold untouched skin shifts restlessly in the drear and yellow light of another sad and melancholy hour away from my arms around you, abreast and grinning with excitement, contentment, contagious glee. i bring my clean soft fingerds through the strands of aurulent glistening gold hair of yours and press my mouth into the crown of your head, the temples of your face, and your face presses into mine, and it's 1:41am and these eyes wander endlessly around this room ******* down carcinogens and poison, holes in these jeans, black denim tapered cut, your black leather studded cuff around my right wrist and the peace beads a wandering monk granted to me with a gold card and a bow while amassing friends in the herds of people gathered in line to go into Lollapalooza. I am brimming over with excitement, even for the taste of dog feces in the cigarettes(I will brush of course), you are my event horizon, my vessel of light beams, lasers, and the most immense love for which of course more than a dozen different writings attempt to share with others and imbue the world to even come close to the extraordinary magnanimous love and adoration unto the both of us, but between ourselves especially.

Earlier this evening I was speaking to Elizabeth on the propensity of how valuable having a soulmate really is, not to say the words but to know the person, to know you in the full grace and integrity of what that means. I was saying how with you, there is no one or many or anything about you that disturbs me or that I could find gross or that could keep me from wanting to be close to you. That no matter how sick you could get or **** it- what I was saying is that I love you so much I want you to spit in my mouth, smear every part of your body against every inch of my body. I want to smell, taste, touch, and see all of you that there is, to sit again and stand again and stand up and sit down just ******* staring forever in the most beautiful enchanting, ethereal, and beloved face I have ever seen. And if I must I would carry you over molten lava, burning steel, broken glass, but instead I think we ought to go to Half Moon Bay, and while the chill is in the air, and it's just you and me my love, we can dance in the surf and kick the water at each other. Because the continental plates will always be moving, the water will move to grow and surge and swell and turn to clouds and back to raindrops and precipitate life and govern this planet, but I will always be governed by our amatory interconnectedness and how perfervidly passionate and over the top I am and always will be about you. I will give the world to you, so long as I can love you for as long as I live.

k=k

Luke warm bath verse. Can your fingers live on my thumb peninsula forever I hope. You groom me and I'll dump the water over your head. Sit in front of me, I like the way it feels when it pokes your back awkwardly. It's weird to me, only your toes wrinkle. I can be the hot towel and kisses on your eyelids. The morphine calls my veins, while you don't call my name. Ours was unlike anyones. It still is to me and the trailing cries of women who I tried to **** my heart out of your hands. Like shucking emptiness from already emptied containers. I'm living for the day I feel your hands on my face again. Again.

acknowledge me. seething with tumultuous needs, the crispness in your cocktail dress sways fingertips, interstices of unscrupulous overuse, the deep accreditations you accreditted to our use. The oral collages of fogs synthesized sacrilege. Organics and the ultramodern. Speak ballet with me, turn your head sideways while I look at you a new amazing way. Write your future in the dna of my hands, I read the secrets off yours.

Walter Kronkite once said something truly magnificent, in front of throngs of people, and still no one knows what it was. Saturday, January 24, thirteen past nine pm on Saturday evening. We wait.

I remember you like a famous brachiosaur, ensconced in the terrible street lamps of west county apartment block row. That swaying bronze gate to your three flat two room apartment. Skinny legs for the couch, the backroom bedroom, and the bunk beds in the master suite. We studded me for excellent squeeze; one trident pull switching time against a baited lock. "I'll swallow you whole," you brushed off into my ear while I passed your cheek with my lips, braising your skin with dew drops of our rushes and sweat. Even for April this was alright. Your brother had already moved out, and listening to Hall and Oates and going fishing was all you wanted to do. So I made us two root beer floats with Almond Milk ice cream, and settled into you for five hours and forty-five minutes. It was before 5:00a.m. when you turned to the night and spilled the last ounces of your naked body out to me beneath the satin sheets. I pressed my lips hard against your nose and whispered I'd be leaving soon. Still I do not recall if I woke you when I left, but I remember that next day when you questioned if I had.

Regulated heavy-petting, severed metal jukeboxes of the new platoon. Orations in the streets, on their knees; women hanging from street lamps, their shoestrings dismantled, clothing sifted through for every karat of worth, then the shoes stuffed on- bare naked bodies and tangerine blossoms came through the Eastern air. One of them coughed something, not in English. Each of them riddled through with decade-old grins, as if from a childhood game of cops and bandits.

Every part of my trust in her body, a knot made of plastic in a reel of film strung from her shoulders. A gunshot emptied her stomach, its bang echoed cerise colored paint.

Floating with a neon cross
I plug your neon holes.
I gross our incomes both
But watch you do it up your nose.
I wish you knew how much those boys just
want to *** on you then leave.

Every day I wake up searching for the sound of your smile, in a
Photograph my fingers ran through your hair, golden rays of sunlight on
Pebbles each its own drop of sand, shone to these eyes in radiant night.
There was a time I remembered how to talk to you. I just can't get there anymore. I cross the street, use the cheat sheets, the pictures, the prose, and even an event like today doesn't hold a flame to the brightness transcending our time shared at all.

This is the hour meanness bears
Girls marble eyes fatigued by sun-filled play on Summer sunny days.

Black angel of mine, meander near my truth; corral words interchanged between the mortal whims we buried near the sand and stone murals the coastline and ravines overthrew.

Many orchids, chocolate brushing a with death'careless needles- adapted since.
Now I follow you, the boldness of your emerald crown, and the swueakiness amidst your new Keens and their patter on the crackly ground.

A cute exists to cease your pain
It takes the somber in your ails
Then slivers off pieces of your bones.

The downside is you **** all day
Your fury enrages you more.
The three-step antibiotic treatment
Made the sick in you sicker-

Treats meant to wander freely Now we've been in this trapped plainness in trapped family nowhere-land; until so miserable, melancholy, and disappointed

Anger turns to shouting.

Your parade makes me purple, it makes me thin as an alphabet, I don't know, I don't wanna understand. I'm an estimation, I'm over and not in great abundance. Don't defend me, I'm not the header atop your letter.

Open me, I'm like your chimney, inside your mouth I am the lips you dip your tongue through, growing with sensation. See me and seam me to threads and tow me through your ****** lines-

little piece of flesh
Just a little dance, Just a little romance
Keep me in your pants let me be your postcard
I'll float across your eyelids.

Let me know your name
You can ******* skin. You can see my seams bend, my hours grow a little tired
Lifting up your dress, I can taste your pastes, your pastel belle comes floating at me sideways.

Ours and again, you ask me, "is it a nightmare?"
You ask me, "is it a car crash?" You say, "I can feel you breathing." This is not a spell, there's nothing left, not even a little lie I can play with in my fingers, you say, "is it the moon in the stars." And I stop you from ruining the sound of words to preserve a moment. Something a silence and a dollar doesn't buy you. I ask, " is this you my love? You're an imaginary process I'm never going to be interested in prosecuting perfectly. I'm not- an extroverted invert, a spirit floating in the corner of your eyes. I'm over zealous, a zealot, full of youth, using grief to keep your eyes

she drank from god's fountain
tore the rake and the peasant's plead
as the chariots blew across this storms foundry
new black ashes, soot stained faces

a gall from the mercurian lee
hunts dark places and wild dogs fear him
the forest is his legion but he shakes from this poison
there is no sky and the trees don't hide him

there is no universe unplugged
neither a human too forgone
to wrestle every inch of skin and sleep
to fight towards her against the leaves

human mouths have wept
before the hour, crowding gazers in the streets

news of creation

streaming red blue green
metres undoing the rite of bliss

until yesterday today had been the same

peach skin worn to a sinister shrill
while sound makes the meadow the people hear

and some were unkempt
new tidy purplish stones
new dust collecting time

not all their faces were built for fright

Well they talk about the treatise,
They talk about the pigs from Lamar, they keep
Their furnace raw and kids on the move. Some wreak their havoc in swords, others burn their denim and gold. They've got their names in stone, and the sour-**** blues. Wrapped up in methodical and squared from an irregular obtuse. It helps sometimes to keep the furnace alive, the girl's red, raw, and juicy too. The night can keep the fury alive, but it pays to keep your sword sharpened too.

White-bodied black bird raven like creatures that sit everywhere and obnoxiously yell to each other from the wilderness we live inside.

Wet birds. Soaking in mod colors affixed to the numbers the looms set in the torn threads of an old tank top named with the characters of Dune.

And in sweetly moving breaths of air the peaks pull through this range of mountains seen from our back deck.  

Friends, join us as we balk putting away cardboard boxes as not to put a hinderence on the relationships with our neighbors and instead traverse the moose-trails the tourists stop and crop their lenses at- only to make to Brouhlim's.

oh amethyst jungle of beautiful night
where these million cuticles waltz in kind
and strike, hammer, and type
the maleficent furry animals dine
and our species cries in size
hollowed by the weeping and dandelion wine

where cupid's clutches rally in triple-time
twilight's symphony combines timpani entwined
with the lux cacophony of midnight's sighs
and the vibrations of these electrical lights

unveils each mind with universal life

Mentally, with transfixed exuberance
I beget unto my fingers something so entrancing, that as if to steady a tongue-thwapping aweness- it plays to me, like a unicorn song. Heavy-like. Sweeping hands over with stranger’s voices, mixing the toiling mischief misunderstood. Then stains each column of its melody in waves impervious to this language. With nexility, the nibs and thimbles jettison into the blissful rains of beading color, where only such human momentum cascades before its subtle ends.

Inside of the room where we smoke and draw pretty things in ink
I wrap my arm under your arm, and call our bodies into hug
I put my neck over your neck, you are the cheetah cub I am the fawn
How many rains old are you? No, how many droughts old are you?
I carry spirit sharks I've never seen inside my skinny legs. My hide is
Built of rhinoceros hearts and truth.

I have lived in webs, lived in dens, lived in bars and you. Your hair smells
Like freedom, marriage, and youth. I want to be osmosis where the cells Collide and contribute, even the physicist's are confused. What kind of Bird are you? I said what kind of bird are you?

I've been in the room with the garbage bags for a roof, dried berry bushes That Ed has eaten bare of fruit.
I want to hear you sing, the stories you carry with you from your youth. My trauma card is punched now, are you carrying the blues.

I have shuffled up, inside the Hebrew dragon gods I have never Understood, how the corduroy grows weary from the use, the cotton Threads they made are sewn and stitched well, so why do they tear on The legs I put them on, my legs are skinless, my pockets worn from Carrying things like a child whose curiosity is overused. I'm free for use, I'm yours for use.

Under the legs of giraffes falling in love by being licked to buy a deer deer licking giraffes Gareth Pugh transforming signs pigs that can't **** but **** bricks in the tea cups personal Hispanic designers transforming into anorexic girls tornadoes in Pennees that buildings can't stop where pro-skateboarders take millions of dollars of drugs that are crystals and mugs and improve haircuts to make mugshots better who go to bathroom the stress says this transvestites in British airways first class airplane ride bathrooms **** **** ******* ******* **** in and list ***** used who's spending money and and aunt uncle and uncle gay and lesbian **** show putting faces in the toilets and wedding the water stopping at rest stops work carnival junkies pay tolls and gas station attendants charge super fees going to grocery stores to buy cream soda likes Sprite flavored train send peanut butter cup chocolate **** sores and send aunts uncles and uncles undulates and pigs passing by signs changing words miss read words changing over and over again passing through Stardome popularity celebrity. Rachel Lynch by skinny victory over and over groups of people lost in bathrooms starting outs in the story telling each other being wet by Harry Potter. In the beginning their hair was wet eyeballs were sore they took drugs text transform them into night sweats and their minds ate breakfast as they arrived at the circus storytelling they wore black costumes and shrunk like Alice in Wonderland having to **** and **** and eat but they were silent until the drugs came back into their systems and then they remembered each other. My father's brother Jim's son was lost abandoned me inside a marketplace in Colorado roadrunner was treated having a disease rather than being a drunk and given medication while lost in the end of the world's apocalypse. Symphony after symphony lost and returned and lost an overturned enveloped in the mall or people in different sections provided different offerings like curiosity giving oral *** or rubbing ankles or kissing on heads or **** ******* each other to death. Moving through security checkpoints falsifying drugs by providing sticky chewing gum pulling it from their mouths while Hispanics were extradited to other South and Central American countries. Oh my God insanity bliss favoritism chocolate peanut butter cup Carnival riding red neck necking car crash crashing insanity. Goblins introduces lighting fuses of other uses oxymoronic hyperbole of onomatopoeia and sounds raking the ears, breaking Pap smears in the vaginas of men with penises of early surgeries. Michael Gottlieb as a hog, tigers and dynosaurs, Jim Morrison poisoned, Transformers rising to the Chicago skyline TIE interceptors of cellular structures musing youths. Hallucinations of blasphemous miniature creatures giving faith to words transforming to the name of this movement this movie: The Shīt Shūw.

This conversation can’t come fast enough, This past I’m needing for, can’t come, can’t know how to please me, my needs for you hurt me badly. The truth is I can’t live without you, and I keep going forward. My drawers are full, our ages come fast, chasing down the dreams we’ve both had. I am mad and about you. Won’t you trust this love I’ve shown you. I watch your feet walk up the dashboard. My nellypot goddess of highway photographs. Summers’ time and heated romance, you can cool off with the drinks I’ve been keeping in my knapsack.

Just tell me where you are
Just tell me girl where you’ve been going
I can feel the Earth as it’s pulled apart,
I can hear each strike at the world,
While the waves crash over me.
No one brave enough to do their part,
Come walk with me
Let us go to the park.
There’s this gift for your lips to heal,
Taking words to the books that could’ve brought you to feel, just a pinch will reveal your road, philanthropic donations requested from that ghost on the phone
But as much as I **** you in,
I cannot **** your ships back to me again
Watch as I start to swim
Watch while the tides throw me out to sea again
I’ve swallowed the oceans and
I drowned on the land
Could it be that I’m falling
Faster than I can stand
Could it be that the facts don’t fly
But I’m listening to the words that you’ve shared. I listen with the focus knowing you’ve listened to the same words we have. Such as the balm that goes on your lips, I’ve used it myself on our lips, well, are we now closer than five degrees of separation. Will it be? Will you swim with me?

If you put the blocks on the chains and the chains on your legs, I would box up myself and jump over the edge. If you took yourself to the hellhounds den, I’d bite the paw of the black dog that fed me and then do it again.

The truth is, I can’t believe my life’s needs are greedy. The truth is you know my fingers are living, say it’s so. Why won’t you collect your headaches and hangovers, then call your bluff and reach me by phone. I admit my passwords. I admit my wrongs but I know that doesn’t make me right. I give you my stories and dreams, my secrets, but the more I see you look away the more it makes me want to greet you and see your face in the light. The mourning that claimed both of us, pushes both of us to see ourselves tonight. I can be the story that borrows from tomorrow, but only if you let yourself be the goal between the both of us- until tomorrow we make haste, trying harder every moment, if only, in order to be together past the morning in order to lick each other’s dreams, and hemorrhage every demon that we used to fight.

It was wishing. I was longing. For tomorrow, forward arcing, you come to me in darkness. You came to be the heartache, of a love I’m trying to hold. Everybody knows that knowing love doesn’t mean it can be owned.

To break of sin I will swim through darkest nights. Two abreast we’ll feign our plights, and break our bodies on the streams, in vain attempts to love freely.

Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs  sprayed all over the everywhereworld.

"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.

And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.

These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.

While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.

In the mountains of winter, hats hung to the west, on the North Star we've ridden into tomorrow instead. The natives can smell the fear that's starving your dog, that keeps the anger inside you bottled up in you alone.

And the acres subside, the girls lay in their shorts, but I hate disappointment. I hate being let down. I say you have the prettiest blue eyes that I've ever found.

In the valley, if they come, we'll read ourselves into history. Rocks for the eyes, and sticks for the knees. Against all that's wicked, inside something strong. We've all had our guts pulled out to a Keith Richards song. And the drums break, the strummer hums back, the words mix and there's a cacophony of wrong.

Even the hero will be our villain before we've come too far along.

We've got sounds, we've got city.
It's really coming down but I can't see it.
Airplanes? Apollo or just another meteor?
Weekend Thunder Wind on Friday morning.

I can carry the thick. I can carry the idle.
But my sea legs don't kick in while I'm standing on dry soil.
If it's going to be Red Dawn, I'd like to at the very least
Have a chance to put my boots on. But if it's not Construction or the chill Of Winter, it might just be the Weekend Thunder Wind doing fly-bys on a Friday morning.

All night hungry burning sweet grass, California sage, and listening to the wind talks of the Navajo. She's asleep at my back, but the gusts are 21 miles per hour and chasing after all the gales. Another slamming, shaking crash from the Weekend Thunder Wind acting spoiled on a Friday morning.

Dogs they **** inside the house.
The shingles are getting gone.
The tuning of the A-string is brutally wrong and off.
I can hear T. Rex's dancing and having ******,
Or maybe it's just the Weekend Thunder Wind waking up one day too early.

I've been haunted thrice and seen my guts ooze out
Its hellacious and abhorrent.
But there's 17 more hours to hang out with
The Weekend Thunder Wind while we get coffee and The Chicago Quarterly.
If the Spring weather will be arriving soon.
Let's wear our Ray Ban's and fly kites this afternoon.

My happiness comes from me ask my friends and the world around me blossoming in a spark of crimsony red moon glow on forethought walks through the shivering lenses of percept that trickle down our backs as we enlighten ourselves with all that is in between and unseen.

It is as if our aged limbs were caressed into a symphony of leverages and their shapes. We cannot be cadavers. We are arms of cheer and picture jasper, adolescent googled-eyes gathers with virile fixations on our partners as we prey on the map lines subtly employing our eyes as we dart across each dimple, pimple, freckle, and gently worn rash lines.

These are the dogs of our incessant barking. Idling for sincerity, as actors swiftly press Winter into us while our limbless diction presents our inadequacy Rd upon our ugly and I'll-tempered neighborly-things. Aliens of the afternoon, first floor agony and karmas standard for living in a reduced climate One.

Wearing down the hooves, undulates from Pepperdine mark trails with breaking breads and twigs and bones. Undulates from another world, behoofed and bemoved, curdling their sappy reselling a of drat and unkindly remarks. And we have begun to wonder when evolution will kick-in. When will the military come for them at the doors and vacate is all from our nontoxic lie-shrouded apartment complexes, condos, and cabins. Slaughter numbers of letters and integers right out in the street; loonies in the town square and the moose are crying.

Hallucinating Bureaucracies and auditory Hallucinations : When the voice in your head speaks when you don't want it to, to head's of State not present. I could snuggle in bed if I wanted to, but I've got to orchestrate and reorganize the Clinton dowry. It started outright with trying on a purple, yellow, and blue button down shirt that had Scabies in the sleeve- and now you're all going to know why Mr. and Mrs. Obama don't want to talk to me about potentially increasing livestock traffic across the Americas. I think could practice will follow from such a manure, I mean maneuver. I pick up 10 or so bottles of plastic single-serve water for consumption in my apartheid room. It's awful in here. The gold disappears from the mines, and even the hands I used to work with are blurring up in the twister, and as much as you call or don't call I have no business managing your intentions- only mine. Some barrge of women over thirty. But still there isn't a problem. The river is beginning to flood, and the fishery's stockpile is running low. Maybe we ought to empty out an African mass grave and fill it with blacklists of co-conspirators and then make a drake or a flume out of the narrow walkways between the cities. Then maybe we'll have water to last us through the dry season.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------- Where in the world is Sam in Hammond, Can Diego? Forklifting pillars, bribing monkeys, playing with his Mickey Mouse and Michelob, catching the taller, eighteen and up crowd catch the last car riding the rapid drop from Space Mountain through, "It's a Small World After All:"  

It's a world of laughter a world of tears, it's a world of hopes and a world of fears. There's so much that we share, that it's time we're aware- it's a small world after all."  

And then he takes the biggest gulp of water into his mouth that I've ever seen the man take, and he puts it in a small cooler that's strapped to the back of his calf, and he swears to me that the aeroplanes are going to come loop around, and when they do their glorious water-landing, he and I, or rather, the both of us, will be saved. Saved, hm? I don't even bother sharing insights or my insides. I quickly flash him the most-pod horrific a tryst that irons down a photo of Egon and I back in the Old City, what was it, Chicago, or something that very much sounded like Chicago. Could be totally awesome and I'll chime in that now is the time when we do our work best. That's all. Intrepid,

A skin of threes your majesty
Pepperdine and cypress trees
Commit to me next summer please
My needs of us together lover
Let us wed us into we.

The plane is emotion.
The form is a gentle rider,
she pushes bullets off cliffs, she hugs the stars.
Catches the moon eyeing her with one
great big hand wrapped on its ****;
spins the bell of her dress
round and round.

Sifted from the Earth, man moody
cleft in heaps of his entrails,

no progress has been made.

My metal mother pulls hula hoops for zulu,
she rips down the shelves and pulls
Bobby Dylan from the wall. She says,
"grrrplleeopzhrka." And the smoke gets into
my eyes and burns my nostrils too.

In the great wind screen, footprints of man,
Native American blood weeps on my bright
Summer burning, no regency cleared. The
outlook denied. It sits stagnant, maddening
with its blockhead on sideways. Heavy, old
mutter hubbard wilting gold in her stare.

Mess comes. She spoils, her skin is loud
and anointed, her fecund white placard
is thinner than air. People look at each other,
a goblin, two trollops, the green woolen winter-wear
of a soldier in despair. Only a putrid noon, escaping,
cuts the flesh from the garden. Cuts out all the weakness,
the hope, the love, every thing owned, every one cleared.

The skin trap and oyster flap. The rich mixture of voices,
nothing holds common that bond, that few could look upon,
that youth could-

none of the old things work anymore.

Just a wicked boredom trickling in blood down her legs, just
the lust trickling down her legs, dear mommy, I obey.
And when the summer months set in mahogany, and the icicle
feat swallows us up, dear-
death
Winter
lips
moths buzzing
mouths
fuzzz
your sweet bomb
bon bon

what is more gentle?

than this pillow of the light?
a life narrowing,
in a bright feather dance
that sweeps across the sea
or covers our faces in shadows.
where do you go when you leave me?
now I am nocturnal,
a bliss bandit,
cooing at stars
one thousand miles high.
shaking like a tea kettle,
I am the black *** black,
shaking,
shivering.
Swallowing pieces of your light,
in the back-room jungle where I sew,
tears to the bottoms of my eyes,


I know days,
hours,
one minute
where I gambled time
and stood behind you
with my fingers
on your shoulders
and my mouth on your neck.
What it takes to be apart,
split in half,
shucked from birth;
it takes every thing I
ever owned,
every note I ever sang,
each breath that I will make-
some thought I stand up on,
my knees quivering below me.
five kinds of drugs
just to see straight, to hold
my hands steady or
sleep at night.
your lavender flavor
is still in me.
youth inside me.
one.
two.
soaking in this forgotten city,
Earth's heroes drifting away.
I could never eat again, or
cast a spell, or touch the same.
while burning I may never
stand
on these same two feet again.
Or answer an echoing voice
From across the gloom
Where nearness emotes itself
And I freeze inside my own cacophony
Of brilliant moods and total confusion.


four years,
a photograph.
one voice,
softening into my skin,
that I may never forget.
that this beard is of
an old man, should I never
count again
blessings or songs.
I dive into the flame
and study this journey backwards.
so I should never forget,
everything so serious
as this
as youth and eves
Three drops of cuteness
Spilt against a human act of
Being.

She gives us fevers and wraps us in time. She is the newlywed- our metamorphosis. Death clings to her open grave. Her movements are the executions of precarious and docile prejudice, ganged upon, and drenched in oblique misunderstanding and very indirect confusion.

We are all grocery shopping now. Your weapons of delivery are broadcast in takeout, Chinese or Szechuan Broccoli Scenario #96:

Where your mother finds I have taken the Mercedes for morning lemonade stand gallivanting, early Beach Boys mixtape scenarios fulfilled.