.

























                              "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

  
  
                            


                              "Taking pictures of naked girls."






























.

do you i
have some
memories

   of remembering

some remembering

i was when
you were

two cold outside
to walk and
we so
(staying)
stayed inside you

were very warm

and




                                             (it was so cold outside)

suddenly light
(which inexplicable mountains have torn)




                         Your fist
                         is prettiest
                         when



it opens
.

it seems the brief
nothing of my
hands cradle
the sweating brow
of my child
sleeping so hardly
within the quiet
of her breath--

the smallest pressing
of her chest the
largest miracle of life.

her hair is fine
and golden--
the light comes somewise
the follicle full
and brimming in
brilliant strands.

my wife is beautiful and i love her:
she has given me the most
beautiful gift in my children.

she carries in her body the torch
of into swallowing enormity:
whole darkness.

on the withers of a pale horse,
riding into that good night,
she bears making.

a maker before all craftsmen,
she creates through effort of her flesh
the most exacting somethingess of being.

i hold the makings of
her hips in my arms
and they are the most
beautiful thing i have
ever seen.

.






















































"I write all this beautiful **** about love but really I just want to ****."








































.

.





































                                                           Your dreams will not come true.



























































­


                     .

.




























                "I love you."



                "If only it were that simple."
























.

.































































­




                                                 ok Spring let's ****




























































­




.

Big,
i cannot believe how so
incredibly
you are hot and orange
with
Summer i can remember

wandering through
the vestige
of your hot flesh

(cool exactly alone)

one lonely hand
making
the making

of a girl face
cupped by curling laughter

hair

that

i cupped with
laughing joy of lonely love

(i wonder
i remember

and dream of deeply loose muscles
in that quiet city
of constant noise

who R you the god
i've been
inside several
times tonight

         ?

a beach rose
where one time
i wished i was
seeing the ocean
split itself again
over a man.

did you ever
wonderlingly
upward which
a star upon
pitch stairs
climbs casually?

who knows not me i've never even seen.

it's still moonlight–


pushing over a             "Yes"

into "baby please

**** me




harder


                    "

some hot living between playing
the air
with hair
does some girl beneath
a heap of wondering brains
completely perform a lust thing.

poem,

              


                  i
                   t






seems to
bright seems to
trill with–

poem and
a little song;

often and curiously to struggle beneath
the wide sound of its voice:

its own letter,

its own verse.

i am my own hands,

only when they are alive with you.

some wet some centillion of how about i've been waiting all day to
stick it in you(r) mouth please let's kiss i love you so much i want to ****
you i want to tell you i love you don't be afraid because i want to love you
i want to *******; it was really hot and you sweat all over me (all over
me) when in the middle of the day i ****** you in a park parking lot i got a ticket on the way to get in your mouth you tasted so good and can we do it again next week?

.
























































        "Why are you crying?"


         "Because you're so beatiful–
           and someday I will never be
           be able to touch you again."

























































­



.

not less spoken than:
;hardly hearing
;barely speaking

            .

3 loves because
you are not one body
single hands or
two lips only;

you are(perhaps)

a multitude.

perhaps a gallon o
of incredulous which
i become by

each tremendous
drove of your hips
that eat like snow

my figure to become still.

more still than to live and that
i shall lay forever as a flake as like
to melt upon and be the new old soil
between each pressed sole of boys and girls
in love they make the curious racket

of life. i would like to make in you
before turns my hands to ash and
not even one of your bodies

can h(old

.


























































                                                 Winter.
























































.­

.








































                "Where are you?"



































.

what's a poem?some numbers
(after all)howmanydoyougot
                                          ?i

got oh how many let's count
'em
        do

you think
you'll get as many?i'll

like yers if ya likes mine
let's like em

a word without reading
cuz

         what's a poem?

Just some numbers, after all.

she it who little nervously is

most soft
most innocently head

throbbing

between neck and air to be

loved to be

needed to be

wanted of more than body always
can't but to "I guess

we don't have to
tell
my            boyfriend.

.

























             "Promise me you won't forget."


             "I won't."























































.

It is still here now, I think.
Perhaps.

The land is still.
The grass is still.
The water is still.

(the rain faintly against the glass is still.).



The earth is private in the smallness of its breathing.

It is the smallness of my son’s breathing.

I stand over him and I listen and I watch.

He breathes and the smallness of the world sleeps with him.


(my wife snores.
my daughter rustles in her crib.)


It is still here now, I think, perhaps.

.































































­





























                               "You're just going to die someday."























































­
































.

.









































                 "Cruelty is a more genuine expression than kindness."






















































­.

.




















"Rule #1:

Don't give a **** about anybody;
because nobody gives a **** about you."

































.

.








































"All I've ever wanted is to be loved."


































.

"You're not what I expected."






















"What should I have been like?"

.






























            "Water you waiting for?"

































.

in what sureness holds wife hands?

My most mundane love,
fresh in a moment
i felt your shoulders
between my fingers
the fascia binding
my soul to yours.

when took me
yours beneath
a smallest gable
of artificial flowering:

(in a peach dress
very pregnant;
i kissed the
last person).

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     .
              .
                   .

           .


                              .

Sea,



                                                     the




                                   gulls

                                           (you)


                                                                                          krashing


                                            by




                  frequent tiny



                                                                                         eclipses



                                                          of



                               waves


                                                     Express


                                                     chips
                                                     of
                                                     white
                                                     onblue


                                                     becoming


                                                  



                                                    (instantly)
                                                     hung
                                                     by

my wife that i love you are sleeping
heat over heat
of my ankle yours ;

the trilling
thrum of
your snore is long

longer than the long night
of unsleepingly my body,

heat under heat

of your body mine.  .  .

i hear occasionally our son
also whose snoring
is small
small
sma
ll er

than he is
(can you believe?)

"Want something beautiful? Make yourself beautiful first."

who has been my own heart
that within its flesh
there is some self
as i could touch;

after my own touch,
which within their own heart
beats?

.




































                 i love you let's ****

































.

"It hurts."





            "Do you want me to stop?"









                             "No."

.





































"                                                  You're a monster                                               ."





                                                          



                                                             "Maybe"

























































­
















.

I love you, my wife, you are
beside me sleeping,
though earlier
you were warmly
within my hand,
your hand;

And I looked and I saw
you sitting there,
the light easily
within your eyes,
and all blueness peered
palely out;

What is more beautiful than you—
I do not know.

No more goodness that I know either.

(you are goodness ten times
the goodness that is me)

And kindness.

And I am always near to your thoughts.
And no one has ever loved me, as do you.

I love you, and I love you, and I love you.

You are my wife.
Always that I am.
And will be.

(i leaned over and kissed your cheek.
you were sleeping while, and were irritated—i could tell)

.


















                   "Well that's ridiculous.

                     People hate honesty–they prefer to be lied to."




























.

not to live is normal
more normal than to live is
to eat and sleep too late
on saturday mornings
or to meet with cloven
skin the bare rawness
of your chest .




more normal than to is,
is to is not wasn't never was and
won't be ever more than
the gesture of your thighs
threaded with moonlight
on sweaten summer eves.

and to because
i assert it is more normal
than to kiss to with lips
,the dirt, i

my hands and body
would like to unusually be

in your breath and body's lee.

"You've done a lot of terrible **** to me."


"Oh really, like what?"
















"Telling me you love me."

it is very soft down here,

the way and

i can barely hear


              (are you talking?

            


                 i love you

the sheafmen come in night as day
and lay the stock of grain in hay;
they pull the scythe to the reap the lot
and bear the yoke in cool as hot.

never at ease, never at stay:
they toil a hand fer heft and weigh;
faster and faster they tie wuts brot
laying in bundle accorded knot.

never to sleep, always to lay,
baring the dirt at shafts' away;
tug at haft ere comes the rot,
that's all the life a sheafman's got.

you make me the hour,
and thy body comes,
and i'twould hold it
that it comes,

i would sleep between
yer ******* and i would
clumsily depart myself

over the hearth of
thy neck

and i would
explain the terse,
awkward
flint
of my
wandering spark

through the rupt
and sweaten'd
valley of thy thighs.

i luv thee
the lady of
thy fair repose
and the sudor
of thy spilt
apple.

yor juice is canny,
it makes soul
over in its hands.

it describes me,
the lips within it,
and it is for my mouth--
fer'evor.

                                                

                                (               i luv thee lady,
                                                 so lay with me,
                                                 this day and night,
                                                 i might that
                                                 to luv thee
                                                 to shew thee
                                                 my luv                           )

.




















                                           ­                                                                 ­                






                                          ­                is this real






















                                      ­                    (am i really alive)






























.

quiet


road


between


bending grass

.































































­



















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





























































­


.

if you
,being me,
want to arrive suddenly
with the moon

(up carrying
the downward
slings of gossamer
glittering night)

i will make soul completely
in the burning shine.

i will make chaste
my smiling sometimes,
and climb inwards
the up what which

hangs by clearly
the pendent
of your chest,

fulminant

and

RISING