.

























             "Promise me you won't forget."


             "I won't."























































.

always
,if the like moon(smoothly as waters),
threads the onyx plate
of night:

            
               i will love you.



As the rain loves the dry air.

As the dry air loves the sea.


will love you even though
eaten by the glad mouth of death, i.

will love across
the stark span of nothing.

by untense memories
of my softest hands.

will caress the curving hull
of thy body's eyes, and muted soul.

h

      U

     n
       g with

just the moon your
shoulders up hold
the round round
round head of

your

                                      body
            ­                          bodyy
                                 ­     bodyyy


holds the down *******
of your naked chest's
white hilt springs
between round rounding
head of
your shoulders' point
pinnacle, pinnacling
at the white white hilt
of Your neck

fit fits ****
(droop obliquely)
swelling twixts
the rude triangle
of your hips
                      hips
                              hip­s(


and the white hilt
of your neck
blunders
with
the course forest of my hand
suddenly grown around it                     )

grown up it the
pillar of it to
the neat neat       neat neat

***** of your mouth. There

h
a
n
g
s

the yawning chasm

where
all throats
lead to
. Scream

.






























            "Water you waiting for?"

































.

such hands as amongst
what drowsy bolts
of Summer
--i can recall

them hands
as brittle soft
as tough easy drunk
uncoiling so firmly
their thighs a flower between broke.

(a bright naked flower a dull wilting flower)

it snapped 19 at the little lake of its;
there was a gorgeous sound

and you and i
and all the ******
nights, dayless
splangling hung
furiously through
that tiny filament
of your hips the very small death of clean.

.




































                 i love you let's ****

































.

.































































­



















what are you some kind of monster kind of some kind of monster are you





























































­


.

is           is
(the way)
your
hurts hurts

me to(Dear apart

          )****(

the clenching of thy fist   )

you hands around the neck  (

'nd release the torrent held at Christ; )


tighter                        tighter
till
breathin'
can't                             (

DEAR, and
in their pearl'd unfurling
crimson run hot of burning

)
)

in your mouth full of me

(
(

at the twaining of my touch;
in the cloak of youth's cloven clutch)

hard spit thick as tongue swallowing.

up ***


down head

some hot ugly between nothing
and nothing goes life
its arms perspiring longways
and shortways
its blab
and
meter

smoking with a short
jeer between its legs
hurt in the dark grass of Spring
is all around it(and

Something is large

and

Something is small

inside it
there are many insides
)and there is a wet
girl around a dry glass
long fingers apart the nape
of its sloping droop
the earth comes undone

and there is a girl
and there is a hot blab
and there is the great red reeling rictus

of a far drop from a near pier(

   )it can see and can you see

The how longshort of the hot blab ugly
between the red reeling jeer of the some
ugly life there is a goes

.




















                                           ­                                                                 ­                






                                          ­                is this real






















                                      ­                    (am i really alive)






























.

.    my soul effuses, and things even drunker than Spring have emerged   .































































­










                                                                 ,

how dose you think a day begins? its
little teeth
smally thin
(as grass between)
the throats of men?

does you think it green as blades of thinness wide
,sprouted mutely?

does you go out to fields and collect it?
in your hands do it shake and quivers?
(does you bring it up to your mouth,
and does you kiss it?
entering the thick copseness of your pallet?)

who many days you been in hurt verdant roughness of coarse forests?
(you been amongst em sleeping the hot hair is full of drowsy longness
and your muscles slackly follow into deeep chambers of distilled nuthing?

you been out back? by the glade brush and the doe mouths
are white with steep petals of lingering health?

"take itup your mouth," goes the drawn trees, drawing even deeplyer
into the quant tussle of wakeless hours where a twitch don't and not
even a cat.

)the forest goes and does you ever think how those thighs
combed with coarse wreaking of bleeding youth
tasted like copper tastes hot at your tongue climbing your whole mouth
into its neat dumbness?

(the Summers there are millions of Summers left and does you think
how

a    day


begins
?

.






































                                                " This has got to stop. "


                                                " I know.                        "

















































.

the"fu"ck(U
                     )17

whyn't.let's

cuz yerI'm A **** "we"re
hangin by
a long fingernail,nail
,nailin U
withaaa
finger(tasteit)
don'*** taste?                                                               Good

i feel (body)
the way it
between my hands

performs the youth thing: life. The

                   uncouth thing, life. The

body way it
needs between hands
its.

the inexorable flinchless hurt of its marching finitely
--into bruises of hands--
its own hands.

that they might make
,by the coming together of palms

,a softness more supple than sleep
(a finite more extending than

                                    infinites deep,

hang me a poem through the mouth of night the slender smolder of cold
imprecise light that it might build into a thin strip of almost bursting
  intense colour(purpleandred). it might suddenly stagger up the
   common heap of sky--through the cheeks of white neatness--
    the blithe cursor of brutal dawn, spilling with such brinding
     creepness of light the thighs of earth full of lancing steepness
      all the wriggling of life shall commence with body lathered
       of youth in stupid love of dumb *** there will a coronet
        of hot dew wreath the pistils of flowers and the dirt
         will speak the rich secret of life in colours innumerable;
          the bending of words upon always quiet paper
           cannot meet with them the fullness of their
            drooping incantation(and lips cannot
             say with always talking mouths
              how deftly the primness
               of their serene
                majesty
                 is,

                  '

                        ,


             '

                                ,




    '





                                                           ,

oh blood the
increasing
of your
quickly                  intense

fragile

     deepness

lurks with the hot sleepness of Summer,

whose languorous muscles prickle
(very steeply with clean waters of health
                                                                          )
.  straying

with new hands
of unmaking breath
between every flower
their fingers go into the
stems of young petals
making, by the brilliant
heat of life, some darkness wholly deeper

(completely more brilliant than

oh death do me,
when i'm
become
just

A

pale jet
(in the night)flowers
between the nimble
lips of darkness

a careening bolt of hot remembrance
all the bodies that my hands have been:
the ease and tremors of their *******.

death, this catch, rest, carry
(the hollow of my stem)
the love each new as old
nor less than any other

that lived within me tightness
that go with me in end.

do not go there are trees and how many who knows the world is round in Spring and fat in Spring is the far wonder of somewhere the chickadees of smooth sweltering dolls with their dulleyed limp mouths and they don't say a "******* word"

I've never written a good poem.

Cool. it makes me feel
(the ocean when)
words do not the lightening
of the long sky,

in undrab Spring(a body is proposed)

of flowerets and garland roses
(green at the knees
between the hips
stoking         )in profusion

their broke
colorful
tension
ringing
(the fur stroke

                  singing  )

stop enjoying the beautiful things other people make.

start making the beautiful things other people enjoy.

ked



                                                    the ****



                                                                                                                            "***




irl."G



her **** the i

suddenly light
(which inexplicable mountains have torn)




                         Your fist
                         is prettiest
                         when



it opens
.

icanfeelsome cold
(hard birds between)
in Portland
there is a red brick building
building between
the hard cold
and some birds

(      i  can  feel   )

the ******* are i love the way it's.
the and it
the does way
(forked dolllike riven).


                                                                                                     ?suppose ouy od


                             why not some let's the?

                            



                           (and maybe even harder)

turn me off(in your body there is a switch
which
ignites the pale frame of flowers


                                     To bloom,

your voice is *** i had forgotten how
its the lips do make by their parting
the jerking of nerves to teem upon
the single tingling of its seamless singing.

(all rasped with **** and an after the show smoke i hate the smell but love the flavor of when it stops being near to farness and with imminent instantaneous kissing becomes

Spring, that whose every year is its last
and whose death always is the promise of its birth:

you pink between,

you softly to part,

you to come of flowers lathered,

you are a mystery.A cute curving mystery,
of slightly undeath.

a curt cutting mystery,
of increasing unhealth.

you're whose *** the mound of wreaking,
the confluence of hips,
and the pourn of roses, gardens.

what is if (does the who why) and?

me perhaps you perhaps the trees
(and thousands of them(i have seen)
and thousands more await
each day as grass of us
belched of cloven stuff foil'd
'bout the neatness of gravestones)

there is a garden
and i have been amongst who
the stems of it sleeps girls
in their skin awake;

in their skinny awake
on unsure knees
ushering

boysandgirls

to and fro

toandfro boys and girls

go into each other their lips and out comes the Earth.

our body the hands let's make between the reeds of deep rivers a widening of our soul and blood will come from their lips into shallow waters the distillation of flowers


                        so heavy with pollen


their heads bow so heavy with pollen their stems bend and meet with bloodandwater




                                     petals,



                                       .
                                         '



                               '



                                                   ;




                                    .

.































































­




                                                 ok Spring let's ****




























































­




.

it's hard the word i'm sorry and
the clouds today
are a bit
cut of light
draping easily with so("

     i,m sorry,,

the way i've notbeen
and haven't said)

the way i love you the way i love you the way i love you. i love

and the roughness of cotton,
the blithe softly flow,
snow and petal broken;

a stream instantly chaste
between the thighs of mountains
(your coming mouth
and how many times have i remembered
the hard droll moment of your intense clovers
parting through a sea of dark leaves
the slenderest gap of life to emit
its thrilling nonsense a gown of roses?)?

i do not or have wondered
on the cutting into the hillsides roads
when driving in Summer
and the sprightly children of dandelions
tumble daftly serene

And want to **** my timid notion
amongst the thorn'd stems of your garden
(where burying is easy
and death never came from the ground
and only life was grass, and flowers, and kissing

forever

                )))(

by what star
(or the shining of some invariably self)
shall guide the making of thy hands?

the excellent health or the
girding of some winsome wealth?

on what plinth of ethic, moral stands?

the body kept;
the jewel grand?

made or unmade a like
(a rule followed
is only valuable for).

Rise
that within
you there titans
of summer invincibly
gold stuff form'd.

Sleep
from which
shall their tumult
sing unbridled colliding
of days in heat's fold.

you feel closetotheskin and
fuzzrough

between the stiff dribble
of your thighs

some mint freshly biting
like balmy when Summer; nights

****** with droll pulling of
pale light Mischievously

which was like the stretching hard
camber of your spinemoutheyessweat r  e   l      e      a   s            ed

enter me thy hands of cool etherizing
that i might

                           suddenly

(a flock of intense doves)
become my skin
some curving ofs
starlight(inAmsterdamwhere

a flower left me
the rich improbable hands of the wind

enter me the intense sojourn of our lips
that i might

step upon

each flensing kiss

my toward darkness body

each more of its less and
set into its bite
my own teeth.

are a lot like(girl necks)
in flowers who--

the earth, untensing
of soil and the clouds
are of sterling fluff
amorous to cling with
such unchaste waters as

--bloom, and turn as
blades into my palms
running them hot with
the deepest scarlet of

thighblood, parted, singing

o do you divine nudely fingers of immutable almost Spring divide me?

more or less than myself when

arrives (shaking) the uncommon
coronet of your rain hair

(that dances)?(i do not go out to receive it my hands stay closed in night(my fists are very tight with darkness whose only breaking is hidden in your wet steepness of easy rain



falling


forever

Spring's little fingers hurt
(pink at the blood)and
push through the lips
of every branch, its pistil.

are what the heart? some
fresh vehicle of kissing?) i have

broached in sinuous deliberate
matchless chords of straining music
                               ,
to break the fragile muss of intrinsic Spring
                               ,

in twain of pressless spent thrilling flowers

(whose mute crushing sends hardboys to war


)and propels quiet girls to wares.

to what unthing new do i impossibly owe my hands to touch?
(its face perhaps its lips or
the body beneath when

it parts beyond darkness

,and some fat drunkard
howls at the moon)?

sunlight
where
your
fatal chord
of music
strains
the mute
scepter
of night
bleeds
crimsonly
a thin note
of thigh
parting
light(


                      your
             mouth
                       which
                 ekil
                      is
                         a
               turned
                         upon
                   medallion
                 ofvery
          Spring.Agape

                     T
                     o
receive

                              the


thick

                  brutal


          ***


                     of poppies

      )

by what courtesy of some small voice does the city speak,

little and so much

it says, "by the way have you seen the old man in
his tired skin,

goodbye,

waiting next to the young drunks so loud underneath they are so loud and not a whisper can escape ,  "

the city, and it talks too much it

cannot be heard

over its own
voice
          .

it feels too heavy with people
and sounds often
in little boxes

, people

little boxes in them

where sounds

are too heavy.

i feel not myself the rain or a trees outside the wind or in the dark a bit (slenderly) where.

.































                                               I am not myself

                                               (or

                                               am I always

                                               the same           )



















































.

I.

do you know?

have you been?

have you been by the slant ways behind the hills there is store and have you
wandered much in it?

have you gone down the little rows and counted them?

have you looked into the tired eyes of weary mothers and fathers?

have you seen in them your mother and your father?

have you kissed with them your thoughts and wondered on the small
mystery of their being?

have you wondered at them looking at you(and what do they see)?

have you thought to reach out and touch them and ask them how they are doing?

have you wanted to look in their eyes and tell them that you know they are tired but there isn't much left to go and you know how hard it is and that you are sorry and that they are as soft and as infinite as your own self?

have you dreamt much?

have you gone out from the store, into the nice mouth of the city, and have you seen the same tired look in the same weary bodies?



II.

where have you been in the Summer?

have you been by the bank of a river?

did you let your toes in it, and did it feel so cool as to rush across them you suddenly want to pull them out?

and how did it feel, the first time you were kissed, and sweaty between the arms, you pushed in even tighter?

have you laughed much?

when was the last time you laughed?

did it feel as if it was the last time?

did you watch your laughter curl away into nothing like a vine of fume from a smoker's mouth?

did you watch it curl away and wonder if you might be lucky enough to laugh tomorrow(and did you wonder how many more days and nights you might be lucky enough to not laugh)?

did you cry after you laughed?

did you look down at your hands and marvel at the intricacies of your bone and flesh?

did you ever hold them up against the night sky and marvel at the tinniness of their work? (have you held them up before your face in a dark room and wondered what it would be like to not see?)




III.

have you struggled much?

do you ache, and are you sore?

do your muscles hurt?

do you feel heavy with obligation?

do you feel tired from living, and with life?

from where does your pain begin, and where does it end?

did it begin in the hands of someone you thought you loved? did it end in the empty stare of someone you thought loved you?

have you hurt anyone?

how did you feel?

did you tell yourself it was ok?

what did you tell yourself?

who were they?

why did you hurt them?


IV.

are you awake?

are you reading this?

will you wake up tomorrow (and every tomorrow until you don't), and will you remember this moment?

will it fade into nothing?

will you recall it suddenly in some still moment?

will you look out the window of your car on your way to work and catch the sliver of some stranger's face in the quick of your mind?

will you wonder on their life, and the sliver of your own face, caught in their mind?

and will you remember?

will you remember?

**** do not cover yourself
your arms across
your ******* are so
nice and do not
cover them across your
body is the curving
hush of perfectly
winsome beauty(not skinny
or exactly straight

but precisely wonderful;

concisely amorous to touch).