going thru the trash

just ripped up two copies of what i needed.
acess denied otherwise.
reminds me of what i say i want
and what you can provide.








()**




water's purpose: slow
gravity down.  my words
are drowning.


















()*






i don't quite know
how the velvet
chains wound round my fingers
but here they are, choke hold
on yous and I/s.



*





the bangledeshi woman
at the indian restuarant says
"we used to be part of pakistan
but we had to leave. no freedom
there." she admits,reluctantly, to being
muslim. muslim
is no place to be in this century's amerikkka.
but there are so many kinds. so many kinds.
why paint the building one solid color?

i was going to edit the poem below
but now first hand accounts
have rendered much of it bullshit.
isn't that the way of writing?
don't confuse the story with facts.


















()**

so, at work, they had a li'l humanity.
let everyone go a half
hour
ear
ly.



with pay.


you keep trying to convince me
that being your own master
is the best.

i keep trying to tell you
that if i'd been a plantation owner
we'd have grown weeds.

i need the system to kick my ass
OR
i need the system to change--

like the outcome of that
 old hippie bumber sticker:
what if they gave a war
and nobody came--

some things just aint gonna happen.






^


and so and so.


what about you?
you think you want to leave passion
in the dust. cut the dopamine
cut the romance, cut the kissing cut the ..woah
not the fucking. lol. let's not get all hasty here.


maybe passion has an upside.


*(*




i watch the lava lamp's
wax expand as small little
worlds collide and are absorbed.
the lava is white. it looks
so cold inside
like the inside of your heart.

so i turn to the other side
where your heart is the warm
  color of teak decks &
tastes of olives. green and pitted

like irradiated memories
preserved long past all natural
time lines.  i couldn't open
the door no matter which way
the handle turned. you on that side
of the century, me on the other,
watching the moon
become the finger
 become the point

.




so very small, the differences between us.
all but one, irreversable and drilled ito my skin.



let's send a message
to the gods of passion
on the back of a postcard
saying wish you were

~oh here.