bodymad

bodymad
in heavy machinery
if this is a time to endure then
i'm there, sprouting and talking
about it.

can't seem to make it count,
or can't make anything?
the only victory tossed up
between a little survival and a little
notoriety, integrity being invisible
against the opponent...

thanks but
i'm not taking anything...
can you call a fiend dedicated?
yes, i can but
neither of us can get up,
delirious within the symptoms

i only believe in death as much as i believe in time

which is only as much as i have to

to keep .. today intact, the pictures traveling as jewelry,

but the bright, thought of an aerial view too.

what do i know about calling myself a friend, a

real friend, when i don't know at all about

what to do when the news banner goes calling

It seems to come together, (time or placement together?),

the hungry taking opens and gives everybody

a taste. (you feel far away, i know. it's easy for me to

imagine solving it, the way i do when the pressure

hits. performance anxiety of perceiving a problem)

you said, play for keeps. and the pictures, boy do we

laugh well. i've got more lessons on the guilt of

showing up, being late, and i continue to learn

when. in a public place i feel most like you

and in the breaking down of all my certain realities

i learn that we're only beginning

any public place becomes a living thing

(not that i know the separation. that's for sure)

you can cut off an arm, both legs, even parts of the head

but not the heart? but not the heart.

you walk like you think, only more slowly. more silver.

i don't like when people walk fast.

when you die time stops counting you,

but we keep on doing it. stuck:

this is a private world. place that eats

up the whole word young and does nothing with it

anyway. we're the ones who need it,

so it's too busy to bother. waste-full (like us)

i'm the paper

i'm not
hung up you don't know me very well i don't get
hung up. i am very important to myself, and seem
to only be equally as important to others who are
hung up

we move exactly like the water. exactly
there is almost nothing it can't teach us if we
would first shut up, or make a joke
so everybody else will listen too

what if the beautiful woman hears a poem
coming to her on the ground, her throat
her body all cut up? there is no paper,
it comes to me

Uncle

we are going extinct. i wonder you, laid with eyes
rolled back in images on the cell phone screen.
the talk just keeps winding back up into its own ass,
and yes i was rude, though it seems to please people more
if i don't admit that right away. either way, we won't know
if you're scared or need our help, somebody is sitting with
you now she told me, the family that doesn't speak of itself
and all in all i can't blame you at all for what you didn't do.
after, and before that, i spit acid, always have,
you sit quietly at least. gets too close and i can't remember
to keep my legacy clean- maybe it comforts me to feel predestined for this.
i don't know why, that should be worse. i mean, the goodbyes are
unclear and the big picture is never the best motivation you know,
anything i focus on just cries when the machines
beep, my eyes turn them to stone, even if they're there
in front of me, and they are, looking fascinated, getting closer
to everything i fear comes out- things i'll never say up to next to
all the things i will- they have this phenomenon on not appearing real to me,
phone rings and the video stops, it all quickly stomps me out but
she opens and closes her body to the pain of it. her whole life
as your mother, the guilt that makes her climb walls, the way
she says i won't. maybe next time will tell us something
different, but for now the song goes on repeat and we're left here
blinking, home sitting ducks for each day later, blaming
the disease for knowing, the machine for saying so and
the hand we hold for keeping track