your face torn like too many numbers

--i would like
to stop being such
an organism--

methmaker



he intrigues me, probly
not in the way he could like
i am fascinated by his ability
to speak coherently in the midst
of his insanity. as if conversing
with artuad. his poetry unmasks him
but you still can't see his face
it's like the title ofthis post
which he also wrote.



in my room, a rose
unfolding. outside the tree's dance
and sunlight angles in fromthe west.
the day receeds and i wish it
to remain in this positron for long
stretches of time. but the spinning
continues. there are 10478 iterations
of this particular genre. this is a mere
fraction of what reversal requires.


pump up the power.



we got our bed from the dumpster
where used furniture is placed
the other dumpster is a trash compactor
both are situated near our front door
so we can see when there's room
for our trash as well as the cast off possessions
of our itenerant community. the painters next
door, illegal mexicans hauled from the tejas border
in a rolling ship over the hurricaned gulf last fall
your face torn like too many numbers
having finished the job here at the homestead
have gone. the pods unit which stored latex,
ladders, canvas drop cloths, rolls of transparent
plastic, bushes, stools, spray cannisters, compressors
and other painterly paraphenalia hauled off one weekday
while everyone was working or at school. now there
are only ladders and broken chests
of drawers, televisions praying
for a technician's screwdriver and beds
smelling of cat piss beds full of fucked and fuck you
maybe crabs and broken heads, broken marriages
he says we dn't want to sleep on someone
else's bad luck. it makes me pause. smell the corner
of the queen mattress hauled inside
from the dark, examine it for rips. haul it back
outside with its shiney suit aroma. a pink and blue
mattress, has the scent of talcum.
it's not very stiff. it waves oak branch in a storm
as we muscle it inside. queen size. fits the box
spring already here. boxsprings are not as intimate.
we keep the mismatched pair.




sun calls to me
says you are hiding why
don't you take your son outside why
do you huddle? i'm tiching itchy from this morning
your selfishness come to light again
you don't understand my selfishness is to teach you
about short skirts, long jackets. how to wear them
inside , make the diamond in your veins.
it will leave a scar so thick you will not feel
and isn'tthat what you want?


i think i'll write dilato. he doesn't want to be that anymore.
i can't say that i blame him...