When you write down the word
"love," in a poem,
You say bigot words
like you are bigger than words.
Here comes the chest puff.
How is any body
or anything we make
like Frankenstein, bigger than words
Brothers say "permanent" like they say
That pervert stutter , let out with lust; they
taste their own wet
lipstick if it's Lutheran.
Face paint for Hindu. Making up rules
Because thems the rules.
After the second war
Frank Lloyd Wright built
houses for the young
men in uniform, well pressed by the years
we hardly mention
all of the flesh he has carved from the world.
Inconsequential, once they were dead
He is not remembering right
away, A live delay
Remembers watching dad
On thanksgiving with the turkey and his knife
And thinks of stuffed gravy
When he has those dreams about drowning in the stomach guts.
Infinity is a math, a faith
based on faith in numbers
to be counted, up and on
this is the fail safe city
and I can’t count past 100 without
losing count, every time
like god, I mean dad, I mean
Space is the final front in the god game
you can sling it for pieces
And let them see light themselves
Make it new hell
An empty everywhere.
Not even, not odd.
The Repeating Integer heart.
If you make it you broke it
already,when it mattered;
now it floats.
It’s a witch It’s a witch
Someone tell her she’s water
There's a pile of disowned sons
and daughters who watch Slavery **** on their laptops
every night in another pile.
Off the record, recording it, on the record
it skips where I need it
Living in filth. Living here, in our own Dump.
Family dump and Feed hall.
The Dump is the one
Who lives on, and is our legacy,
A house that would be a house for just anyone
is a **** with a ******* for a father
And a father figure for lover type.
All the things we think we put time into
Are not containers and we don’t skew time
We barely keep track.
If you can be vague,
I can be vaguest, I guess
I could be some sort of zeitgeist and live
at that bus stop with the clock
in the corner. The one by the guy
with half his ****
out and that clock, metronome too quiet
which is just a clock, which is just a tool. Which means it was made for one
thing We made it.
my only sign that I am not from,
but of the time. Which means I
where we did not
stop to look back for another
bus or Eurdydice soaking
into Hades' airway
because of Love. She died
toes wrapped round a viper
who said nothing. Words
are the viper, not vague but
When you read aloud
Love - without implied eyes
that roll, like dead do in the graves
you make everyone down there wish
for a bigger box
When you start a line
out it starts like the middle of a stop
Not stopping, stopped.