diametra

diametra, i wink for the less fortunate.
won't be formative but reserved: built on
the pretense that we are meant to be observed.
i can't handle your existence as leverage, i
call for the car, winning is breathing for me.
i'm against you and your teeth, intimacy teeth
fall sort upon the heavy security man, men who you
look back at me while possessing woman.
they each line up to become your spine
while hair grows on us everywhere. speak:
evidence to proof like cheese to mouse and
i am to hear you calling: pick me, mother
"won't you hold onto me in public?" resource
in the form of crossed fingers, shaken hands
in the way of the introduction that clogged up little
fragile, running on her voltage of not sure & what else

until we arrive

when you were a testament,
you made an example of
the fundamental crime of separation.

not separateness, the thing that
allows beauty. but separation, the action
which makes difference
partial enough to step on.

there being no real majority,
no real numbers other than zero
and one - i see as any. for in fact,
i forfeit my own eyes up to extend,
not simplify my vision,
and realize all sides that surround me.
we have manifested in one
infinite way.

there aren't enough titles,
we choose the same few:
lover, sister, child, mother.
we can associate, strictly, with the
single focus we have, the only scale
a scale of interpretted self,
and outside that could identify endlessly
until we became aware of
our same implications.

otherwise, we may move out
onto a watery earth of language,
speeches sending us into the absence,
and drift away
to where we say we mean to

holiday

tree against telephone pole
veins. the functioning systems
everywhere- streets as bones,
banks and courthouse organs--
we are the blood. i am made of you, too
but got used to the parasite. now we
all design for the message going back
and forth-and back going message
we've set it off spinning, we have less
definitions for real dialogue, talk like
twinkies for our health. most of the energy
we have manifesting a decision of lack.
which we are toppled within, which we become
thinner by, but still fat for the dinner
of the only powers we don't denounce-
and spoiling them, make them bad.
we are not sure if we are hungry,
we are not full until said so
and the city digests us to sleep

jesus's gold

wait a minute, Actress,
that's jesus's gold. whole world, pair of
hands, in one house a scrapbook filled with
copyrighted photos of barbie.
the barely naked ego
to fondle a hugging, five times
as much state of mind, eyes move toward
the invitation, the VIP trail toward
everybody's praying for change. remember
the time you were sober? when was that? it's
rounded up my skin across skin, dipped
in a burning fascinating height of why

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