what writes dies,
saying itself
in dark little letters;

for a moment it
on bright screens where
it lives
(even though it dies)

the instant of the moment
that it's borne
on the eyes of others

into dying again
as they feed on the
specters in

books     .
              .
                   .

           .


                              .

"After we die the only real thing left of us, the only real fragment of the person that we were, is not the children we had, not the pictures taken of us, not the random trinkets we gathered over our lives–it's what we wrote down, what we said about ourselves. That lives and breathes. That speaks beyond our lips to say at any moment after, just as we were in that moment. Writing then is the very serious work of living. It is the chronicling and preserving of ourselves–it is the task of immortality.

And like all such tasks it ultimately fails. Only, it fails more accurately."

who speaks?
(that i should hear)
whose own body
is my voice.

.

























































                  "What is truth?"

"One question I find I ask myself more and more as I get older is, 'have I ever really loved anyone?'"

("i love you")
        the
sweat smell
the
kiss spitly,

fork tongued
and paired
swollen of

pollen drugged
and cool sweltering

pale chested and
tight limbing

of neck throat
hand swallow
finger filling.

.































































­


















"Let's put it this way: if anyone was
actually honest all the time you would
hate them–you would deride them,
you would do anything to disbelieve
the things they told you. Honesty
disgusts us. Only someone who was
insane or hated themselves would
always be honest–absolute honesty is
the same thing as insanity."







































.