the left side of every entrance tells me
a singer-songwrite about the fashion
in which you once entered a room..
glassing around your iris in false
-search for something to pretend
you are not paying attention to
me as much as you are to what
is in front of you because you care
so much.. beyond a comprehensible
dust-jacket mind-map lick-my-toes
and prove your

LOVE..

I kid, I kid, you love me, you
needn't prosthetic yourself into
a dark misogyny over there.
it's always strange to consider
how strangled you become in
flashy jackets bought forever
at a thrift-shop cash-register
and oh good ******* the
employee is no employee he's
a volunteer and he's been here
forever sweet mr. christie (avoiding
the obvious reference because Judaeo
-Christianity does not make

                          Good

           Cookies)

processing your purchase--
perhaps soon it'll be dollars
to counter. dollars have found
her--

**awake