.


























































                                                 Winter.
























































.­

to open is such a sweet thing, and dear it's so a nice and easy thing to please and unfold maybe the petals of your heat


(where might boys play to eat)

um um um um

    (wut wut)

the *** yer
mouth

    (impaled

on slender tragedy
of girl lips breaths)

sum uhv ****
,way down    ,
yer throat

(please
)    that    (

i of

nerves exactly
body more

dither with
precise warness
of boy fingers

into tingling *****
coyness of unshy

–thigh and bone–                                                                                              )

yer
yer
yer

swallow-allow teethteeth

sc

    ****

                ing

('gainst
hollow
and
tight
instants
of instant

                     SPRING  ,  )

i love you and i'm sorry because.
i do not love you the way
you are perfect(andyouare),
i love you the way you are not perfect. i love

you

the way

you are. i love you

the way you have felt sharpness
(between certain dark things).

And i love you the way
you are uncertain darkness
(between sharp things).

and i love you the way your strength is pain.

(and i love you the way i am sorry because).



And i'm sorry.

and i love you.

I lived while you were sleeping.

it is the dawn which
(skillfully erected)
light hands improbable

touch


              just


with barely strength

lift and lift

the sinuous lid of night

)peeling vigorously
the closed earth

    ****

"where were you?" i was the cooly over of mouth–the wind–
that beneath which chants of ***
incessantly

the world

in pink creases of easy Spring.

makes me to lay down
in waters of thistle
and hollyhock

the crude and sinuous
vehicle of sing.

within thy white
thy flesh hath fold,
where fingereds tight
and girl is told.

you look at nice at body baby not mind dear but you look like fast in lacey nothing baby you have eyes like you've seen ******* you but and baby i like might also to see in you me dear your straight short creaseless hips skinny broken are whole angels of nouns where i'd like to put a comma

it's dark a cat shifts
springing the sheets
stir you the cat
and a branch outside
the window taps taps
taps the window outside
a branch it's dark the cat
stirs the sheets spring
and it's dark you roll
over and somewhere
a dog is barking

.































































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                                                  ­                         Tell me I'm a ****.



























































­














.

WHI
te, ....       your waiting hands are so

     like shins gently bruised

         a pressure of lovely bedded ladies

what else? he's a war of nice arrogance. a boy like
          purple
and he's me. we, we're we,re i; i'm he and we sweat with a demon
in the spiraling helix of our
       dna
how can i **** this kind ******?my desire for some other fruit.

          it's esoteric

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

dead what's it ?
inside the clasped lid
of never to part darkness
inching each breath
presses
pressing
with each breath
towards that titanic chasm

(into which leaps
every humdrum
scintillating eruption
of drab being)

I cannot imagine
anything more absurd than
perhaps ******* or sitting
outside on the pale veranda
of a minute café
tucked into the
silent crease of
a dying city


the light stroking
carelessly the **** soil
boils
with extremely sleepy
afternoon
every where–

and occasionally
a child
can be heard
murdering silence
with its long shriek
of rapid youth–

i wonder and play.
my hands neatly in the comely foil.
i bend and kern
each brilliantly lashed
marvel of coalesced laughter–

a tiny poem is sitting
slant wise their
across thighs
with deliberate health
of constant ***–

there is a mountain hurled
studiously *****
aggressively swept
by moonshadow
and nightdust:          (amongst the reeds

                                     a tired frog

                                      is lilting


across the ether
its ancient song           ) I wonder,


can you hear it to
ever think
upon the frail note
of its enormous throat
that to live is to die
constantly as–


a truck turns south
into the friscalating
dusklight its shadow
is minute;

and how can it
the insane probability
that we naked forevers
might suddenly be
in each distilled
anthem of terrible life,
the brute
the heap
of chaff
off from the stock
reaped by unthinkable hands

(but i think and i wonder
and my hands play amongst the
cool beds of immortal rivers
endless coils of blinding self

4 stiffened, his joists are particularly long and gnarled lances
of pearly bleach. gradually skinless of bones lanky with hands
laid a scythe. he waggles and sheds surly mortal coils we waif
to dust in polite crumbs of rotting health
and his breath is specific. a lash of practical mort

hello, today sun

       i

like you


                i
              
                     like the ample
                     pleasure
                     of your skin
                     i like it
                     and it likes
                     i

i want you. the
coalesced flower of
Autumn in
wriggling manifolds
of
freshest
death,

that by who
paints with strokes of crimson
their brush becomes
the coy feather
of once a month
between
your
thighs:


                                                           blood

some thing pretty
Ugly("man,

                            )tiny



and scurrying enormously
in some big glass(you got)

whizzing to and fro
one less than before

-- minutes each

                        (a light?")

wh O o         Sh       ! ) the sun sprechen
a malleable droplet
of porous handles
meandering careless clumps o
               f
                                                                 a and the ghost
        of spectral
                                          mouths ephemerate
delightful femurs
                                   loaded sensual creamy morsels
some alabaster muscles singing sordid

            or a too short skirt
                                                          i can'

t              kept my skin
         burning cherry infatuating scald
i barely
              am
  real
                               at the
           pursed
                                                    eternity

          of
                                thy immense
     finite
                                                                                   coffin

that loves you the terse crushing pulse of hard darkness a forest through
infinite leaf opens the keyless vault of being and parts every vestige of
self beneath the moon becomes livid every cutless blade with white
incredibly fleeting dust of immense light

it wigs

instantly the body

in tons of weightless flower

all limb to dance with coursing heave

of minute electricity

over which
can barely be heard
the mute rushing
of
grass, "

forget not words, body
thy soul is

                      and

hair            fantastically        ;   more unsquare


than an angle

measurable.         Not


                                 A
                       number
                           ,
                                        a

                     S
                         H
                               a
                                   pE  divisble


or an exact
adding of some subtracted
arithmetical wholeless
singular substitution.         (your
                                               mouth
                                                   is
                                              a
                                                           quiet

                                                groove
                                                               of
                                                      darkest
                                                   earth
                                                              )where


                                        innumerably


                                                              grows



                                                      the
                                                destroying colour

                                             of infinite flower

.
















































                                           "Do you like to eat *****?"




































.

.






























            "Water you waiting for?"

































.

"I just want to ******* love you."

.





































                                                       Your body is a word that I am mad to say.










































.

silently,
the tress
the marigold
the bumbling of
unkempt bees between
green and green

(a whole forest accidentally
in cool shadows etherize by
pools of mostly light darkness
the tall body of mouth        )

not a sound or not a little
hist wist
escapes(breaks)
the tulle

(and it can't be heard
or said how
deeply loose and warm
it is to be
inside the chilled vambrace
of this big forest everywhere)


                             somewhere


a


                 bird



      is,

"You're very beautiful, by the way. Now please take your ******* off for me."

darling(you don't know it)but i got a mouth
a mouth that you'd like, like it would like you
O, how it(you) would like it would make you

                          my mouth

like an Ocean, darling,
                                                an Ocean, darling,

scalloped in muscles alight, darling, tightening
and untightening, darling, my mouth would
make a Sea of you, darling, it would make you
gilt in writhing wafts of sweat, darling, it would
fleck you in the thickest lather of pleasure it would
('tween your coyest thighs)whip thee into a fervent
tumult, darling, you don't know it(but I got a mouth)

as if to seems by (hung the little world

          the eyes noose

                                   ). Perhaps or

the soul more?

the could be hands loose
,the pinkset ear, whorl'd?

(between who where is who
makes or unmakes the rain)?

hands and unhands alike
tremble to fill:
the crooked barrel
o' flower's stemm'd pain.

(the ridiculous i.

                                the absurd you.)

"I'm not always very nice."

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?

Rain)you enter me by the concise brutal slenderness
of your waist

you wet are thousands and mutely cringing on
my neck some

and scalp some

reeling into sleepier darkness
lark perched suddenly between

emits the frailest wings

and treads you into(nothing

did we ever? like summer did. so smoothly into cool light. our very bodies went without us to the wet little wet edge of the biggest hardest lake where god and earth were touching sometimes suddenly. and their sorry eyes stung with a new mostly fragile tear. and we called it SPRING

i am really good at can get inside
your voice and neck

i can get louder

and louder

i can perspire from thy breast

              A RoSE

and follows after scarlet hips
stem, thorns, the parting of
petals from come and more

louder and louder say, "yes":
a stem that's thorn follows
into parted petals, your voice
and neck gets louder and

louder

gets

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

that last who goodbye says too quickly is your demure petal in the wind amongst the trees at night
there is sound like living and beetles rustling there is a doe in speckled whiteness comely mounting
the no sound of darkness with a chirp of starlings in the eaves shake a branch from leaves flutter
and magic as thick as girl thighs suddenly.

                                                      ­                   ,

                                                            

                                                        .


   ­                       
      
                                                                ­      '

go white all the treetops.

in wet winter where,
there are there
such things in unskin bare.

(little tips tops tree'd little
hard in pink with a just slit
of a bit right under
the electric stroke furring
riot of terse tightness . )

how about in two tongues of wide
mouths of gagging on a four armed
two backed beast of short ripe and
long withered gushing at the heaves
of glitter and sweat summer?

(I have wanted to be a whole forest of roots so deep in you I can feel your soil in each rich wreathe of slightly sublime sometimes).

how about we go down to the water
i'll write you some ******* poem
about ******* poems i wrote about
******* you next to the water not
wetter than you

what hot,
estimable lances
of adamantine night

pass drowsily

of exact turpitude
before my hands drunk

in comely seas
of neck clean
and wholly depraved
grasping


                 (the hanging of a boy wish
                   between sallow columns
                   of chaste eve;

                                            a caricature emerges:

                      that self of sometimes dreaming
                      illeasy
                      nymphness.                                      )

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?)

think: what muscles
(the heart's
are stronger) often

they coil in distinct
perfume of girlness; soften

(fiber upon)

and weakness easily
becomes:


think

.































































­




                                                 ok Spring let's ****




























































­




.

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)?

how when I was laying deep in you your checks and baby I kissed your neck you felt so steeply warm and you felt like the tightest drinking of my thorn your hips went running hot with a gush and I kissed your straying lips I went down you your body up went it curved exactly perfect to feel so tightly steep and wonderful to climb

that you are
after all
who i wish i had become,

       (i do not know you)  .

the lips neither the mouth nor
teeth between neck.

i kiss,
and again
i am not you.

i make after the rain
my skin to run
with rivulets of sun.

i do not live early
or sweet between you.

i do not make the small sound
of your breath
inside my own breath.

but, after all, i have my son.

and what more is there than that?

nothing.

and perhaps
(after all)
he shall be
who i wish i had become.

"You're not what I expected."






















"What should I have been like?"

i were left to impress upon myself the medium of hips
where in was yours, the aptest sliver of
feminine hotting spark
                                                 and after
in rigid slumbers mortar
she was more astonishing
than gods first light
he said
once
(and it was
) so?

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
          .

there is an old man who is dying inside me
he lies by a pale ocean
his eyes are and mouth mouth crawls with
ladybugs Spring is there
her lips are full of chafe and brightness hangs
about a flower less
petals each into the wind next to a pale ocean
where there is an
old man who inside of me is dying

i know precisely the whitest utterance
of almost spring nights; of nights
bewitched sonorous
sleeping fragile
fantasies.  from who is belched a pale
gossamer sleepingest city; i who love the
moon brimming stiller streets of
her flush tremble
her sabled hush
her most coyly subdued excitement

.





























































                                "I miss you. How are you doing today?"

























































­











.