there was this competitive
tension thru torsion in each of the times
they got together. some proof of intelligence
perhaps or to see who could fling
the handful furthest. sampling became
the way things moved into a seabed.
a coral reef grown in a decameter
and time a thing of the past.


the smell of sperm and suicide in the bathroom.
stretch marks on the demarcation of cloth and skin.


they were always trying to see beyond
what was right in front of them. surfaces.
they wanted to be the alien, not just observe it.

when something was trashed, they would spread
their chemicals blobby bobby style .
they were something to pedal get some air
going then leak into the body invisible as vibrato.


this might be their stories. but we'll never be sure.









































































































































have a soda on me
sprinkle liberally with crackers
then lick them from the inside of my navel
that resting place of beginning that tied off
cut roothole that entry into cove
of below me on the genealogy tree.

notice how you can't get the crumbs tiny
as the netherlands from the sworls
which lead with brain pan paths inside.
this is my defense, this is your challenge.

last nite the "cute one" according to ruth
the cute one said "oh yeah, you can smoke inside
in nevada. in deed, you can take your gun
inside bars , just lay them on the counter
when you walk in. but that's disappearing"
i thought of how maybe there were other places to go
how i don't have to be cored in one place , limestone
unmined, maybe there are other places to live
besides the inside of this screen.
















but i like it here. guns scare me.









































































































































































































crank it up
crank it down
intensity goes both ways
in dream land . office machines
on vacation push faxes off
printers, give wedgies to the pencil
sharpener who's just tryin to make
time with the clock. likes the way that second
hand moves. the lights keep asking everyone
to pull this dimmer. no one speaks to whiteout
who was not invited. machines. private partay.
take your chemicals and scoot over to the supply
closet little artifact
. this pisses off toner
who makes a hasty exit from printer's bowels
joins in solidarity with whiteout
refusing to entertain paper because
it's not
chemical
nor machine.



















































































































"it's name, probably, meant happiness"





















































at mile marker 420, she lit the pipe.
passed it. celebratory rituals for things of import.
feed the gods. so- mom wouldn't let her drive but
it's all good. she rather be high . plenty of time
for the highway if that asteroid isn't coming.
in four years. always it's the official story
versus folklore. but we got binoculars too
she reasons. we have ways of making you think.
so if four years is all we have that's longer
than tomorrow. smoke smells like two zigzags.
manyana we will look for oil. her private smile
waxes a twenty eight day cycle across the face.
it isn't black or blue or white or all of these.
covered in skin. reflected in the shiny surface
of the laptop with the back light off
all those worlds waiting to be lit up , engaged, open.

























































































































anchor. cross. receptivity. hope.
there's all these catholicisms in their symbols
born of persecution. the hidden hip hops of the mideval crowd.
premedeval , roman empire repeating itself
for the first time. before history was erased and replaced
with the scapegoat o godkillers. the impetus
toward annhilation encoded into communication
so that each word became another razor
for a cell to slide across her membrane.
the secret path of the pigslopper's fondest desire
cradled in the bosom of a slope recognised
as soon as he moved from animal to animus to ammunition
aimed at whatever father figure god was pissed off at
at the time. the stuck pattern of symbolism
because someone wanted to say high to a neighbor
in ways other than sniffable.
















*


























































































































soooo no matter how the pen wants to retreat from
matters of the soul, sold out in newage coinage
along comes the corporate giant mitsubishi to TM the sucker.








just can't get away from divine power today
the trinity bearing down in blonde eyed aryan NORDIC
symmetry. i don't long for those days anymore they
were a thing, it happened. long and slow birth on thin air
mattress. everything falls toward entropy.the one
who would capture it all is the one doomed to grieve.
why can't you just be



where you are?



















then later they would all be without her
on the road. in the red mitsubishi wagon. conestoga
ketchup and chili for lunch. mountains waving
in the distance. singing that old folk song that no one
learns anymore, and not because it's retro
no, it's beyond the need for irony
based in catholic, bloody and useless.
explanatory in a semiotic grand mal. the convalescence
all quiet, a wombstate of non understandment
where meaning coaleseces around a snippet of smile
a feeling of positive reinforcement
therefore fleeting
therefore not as memorial as the stick
pin in your finger. remembering things of not
not of yes.































but seriously. she never proofs before hitting send.
that button's so capricious.































































man i gotta go pee.

check this out
the book i picked up to read
had a short story of gogol's wife
made of rubber who spoke
at the time of my reading
only once, to the biographer and her words were
i have to poo poo.
synch.
























































































































i opened my eyes
and looked towards
your head, cradled between
thighs covered in fishnet
saw you coveting the mandorla
tounge at the table
like a christ with almonds
for eyes.
i remembered how you said
words and their effects
how mysticism battles with the feel
of your mouth and the shaved
areas of meaning to be found
in the origami of my cunt how
you thought it would save you.










































































































































































"give me love give me light give me peace on earth
give me hope help me cope with this heavy load"
even george was lonely. always seeking that union
with the untouchable. become his lord
this symbol is not recognised at "peace" by the dictionary
currently in use. it means o lord
won't u buy me
a mercedes benz.

songs come quickly now, snippets of name that tune
thown in the pot with whole choruses of moonlight.
tonites a party nite. in this town we have parade
not unlike a mardi gras. sin city junior trying to copy
momma orleans. who grabbed her schtick from brazil
where thongs have marched along the coast centuries
in the telling. the ripe curve of young plums, perfectly tanned
mouthfuls of mullatto mango to the tangos
plucked in the air between alleyways filled with beads
because confetti is too hard to wear.



















































































































































































did juno that asteroids have names?
it's lurking behind the sun. not this one, the one
with a name. the unnameable.
the one who might or might
not exist the one lurching drunkenly
towards an impact that seems to promise
the cessation of thinking too much.


i may have told this story before .
feel free to stop now if you've heard it.

















it was during the time of your blondenesses
a bold ride down hanley in the five speed
between a couple of affairs that happened later
but to , not between , each other.

she says mom did you know there's this group
that says an asteroid is due to collide with the earth
in ten years? mom says no, i hadn't heard that end
of the world story. but
mom!
she says do you realize how young i'll be then
and it isn't fair i'll never have even lived
she went on the pluperfect future tense, all negative
i won't have
had a boyfriend or fallen in love or kissed or anything
i won't have been a mother or an artist i won't
have even lived.
so she turned herself into a bird
and took off for the rest of her life.