for robert
implicit in the sage are acts that mark the arrow; they mix deep thought with the shallows, a presence from which he pontificates on life’s time of death. and all at the hands of a language that has quit on him.

if he’s struck by anything real, it’s her subtle movements, they, along with voices, mediate his darkness, put wings on sex, move back and forth in time to simple words playing tag behind one side of the poem. the other, unrelated to sides, is out probing beyond time.

he wants to be the edge that’s occupied by the spaces words go to die, where their fates volunteered.

but, where’re the ‘whys’ that inform the ways things are, or seem to be. he hoped wishes would understand their roles in it, and lengthen the distances between rejections, so, the where, and why, could own their absolutes. and not feel a need to fix his, which were perfectly fitted to the eye’s mind.

and they heard no reason to sacrifice sanity for a poem: righting wrongs made the rites words practice less sensual - their presence is what touches the self as it reaches.

for patricia eakins
I lost my body to remakes: history’s joyless stories were powered by man’s sex-wounds, privates without the pubic sense to originate their own worlds.

A pair of hands bought her from a speech that was shut up by an old man’s fear of the child he’d lost to a cross that only reproduced sins.

A baby’s imagination is a toothless poem that ate its non-human author on the roof of Heaven, yet it still bites each pregnant nipple it mouths.

God farms outsiders out for more sin then they came with - at least a years worth of words committed to being difficult to understand.

Each new poem translated its words into aging lovers that reverse-fucked the language bed I use to write - as a piece of punctuation, I question their motives.

Her foundation is conditional - acts of love-sex in words, not deeds, to confuse any truths caught listening; it’s their prize for being alive.

I taught language to letters that couldn’t read what they heard, or who were plagiarized selves selected for termination on the next page.

A collection of futures changed its address to a number equal to the porn-films of past lovers; they shared shadow mamas on the street with Beckett.

When a star rises, it chambers birth races of poems that get high on word-plays - their only standard of good practice is uncertainty.

to a friend's wife
horny moths are the pains in the asses of narrow oval ends that remember the ashes on the head of a burned out Christ who was crowned King of the Thistles.

silver studded starbursts shot Heaven and stole the youth who was still fucking on her belly when her bloom went off on a new tomorrow.

butterfly sex compromises bodies, whereas sex behind ears of corn(y) midnight blues hold on to God’s expired trust; it’s no longer the transparent panel of faith.

ten of her commandments narrated a series of concentric sins in pools of flesh; their sweetness prickled the apples in God’s large scale Garden.

erotic margins are boundaries, and like vaginal tubes, their tunnels are flutes, hollow passages blowing stale air to stalks skies willing to take food out Angel mouths.

she scowls while his loss of power advances on the lions guarding the gates - lips bite into blood clots, decomp is in flames, risks as signs, have died.

a friendly vagueness haunts her temper, the lioness is a man brooding about glory’s role when all that remains is a slender poem of seedless soil.

(no subject)
sex eyes feed lips that lie
to live off gain

bare your image on my tongue’s
strong taste for blood-blends

move our lust past its beginnings
until the end comes

flood drops of your candy
in my shame / skin it alive

be the body I know
strangers make words in

manage him but don’t
pay for coming late.

the girl needs to watch
nightly riddles, like a poem’s lines
they come, but mostly in guy’s flies

wet dreams of brides knowing more taste
like sunny deserts driving one where

time's a ride. the divide: wind shielding
flesh at its center

she survives without crashing. he's drawn
back inside, is covered with head

buttered to the toes with images
of the girl’s need to watch

...workin' on his tan
She drives stakes into the minds
of unedited footage, films naked
bodies fucking daylight in town
or on the steps of expensive
cathedrals whose Saints are on
'the most wanted lists'

But the artist in her knows
when to stay dead, out of print,
be the first not to be resurrected,
face down the Virgin to catch
the smell of a lost art while
wind blown cocks give up
their sight for blessings
in cracks from the other side.

They thought they'd hear God
fart, prove he's human, in Man's image
an asshole among assholes getting laid
in the sun like the rest of us
so he can work on his tan. alternative reality
Everywhere is a now - waiting. Air sticks
to words, bites hands, feeds it meaning.

Her stories fail enough to avoid satisfying
an ending. I lost a place that crawled

an inch at a time across pages of print.
I was saved by pictures; they slid down my eye

planted me in their searches. Panic tastes
like good sex. Wet crotches head

for the climaxes of thrown away worlds.
We reenter as the weight of a void.

I make out with lover's tales that aren't
embarrassed to wear loud smiles to stop

an alternative reality.

...once more
Nameless givens are granted the right to turn
a deaf ear to what's sewn in God's orgasms,

and like her dead flesh, lives have destroyed
that last pussy's dark menace.

Its power to come called for the last time,
erections are in twilight kingdoms, where

lakes without liquids can't lubricate what's felt.
No glory greater then the desire to fail, and

once more be broken on a naked man's Goddess.

...peace sucks
did anyone see the past come
was it a good fuck

did it mean anything cosmic
or was it just another light

one star among millions sent
to answer all the faces staring

up / maybe it's necessary
like the lives of books

destructive lovers and
selves giving weird head

to the dead Gods who betrayed them
or is it just beliefs that speak

and wonder about what they're doing
but failing is necessary

if one is to see the work and
embrace the unknown - be

the freak that says
peace sucks

a love letter
There they were, a couple of kids from Buffalo
who could have known almost everything
about each other's visit to this planet's
music and art. Past present and future
were more then 'perhaps' - they were
non-objective, surreal, believable things
that swam with mysterious genes. But
they belonged to irreconcilable sub-sets
of needs, longings and disappointments.
Loves that issued from genderless forms -
beings that language couldn't control.

They seemed to have touched mysteries
that grew out of both, belonged to neither,
and yet, couldn't survive the life
that spawned them. Vulgar truths mixed
uneasily with privileged awareness.
Intellectual athleticism bonded with
primitive instincts. Intuition had no
difficulty working them both into whole cloth.

Historical repetitions respected contemporary
iconoclasms. God's blasphemies seemed necessary
for any rational distancing from its ill logic.
All consequences were therefore free to breathe
on their own. But without the naked truth
of flesh to own their flow, all ends died.


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