::

the possibility spread out unto all the ways. responses that suggest violent transformation. i leave my desire a demon behind time. a collision in the dark. in secret language transcendence of a stranger. i touch myself i dream. confront the unspeakable with your tongue. secret and unrepeatable. the thrall in ourselves. the doorways we had hoped for. inside and not inside. tell me we'll never get used to it. breath touching in dreams limbs. caught in the throat like a lump of meat.

::

i am calm now with my pounds of meat. in the midst of what is not sayable in the dark. naughty fetus, hiding like that. i leave my desire stranded. sleepless, running out of lullabies. this is the deepest this light. verse chorus verse. hospitality thus becomes. whisky and kisses for everyone. i always wanted, i always wanted. reeling savage headlong insatiable. people look wonderful together. in its swerving and rushing syntax. lines that vibrate into the furrows.

you have trapped yourself in the wrong body. the plural of universe between. you hot-wired death get in and drive away. re-perform the taste make lover dream ghosts. the dirty shorts of a summer fat man. there is some use in shadows. i've never had it done so gently before. spread into seabirds. he killed her with the shock of his body. a sentence a very open shore. you're dealing with words one word at a time with all the circuits that are in your mind with all the things that impinge on you. there is no body this is not mythology. in fact some of them really are just that. which is itself double and distance, distance in the ears and heaviness in hearing. old war tapes. how a symbolic system articulates itself in a political one.

picasso

his hand is one of the unbearable mysteries. don quixote was a spaniard, he did not imagine things. and don't let any smooth old voices ease you out of it. i go to the funeral hall where it wrenches presence absolutely. this time in the bathtub i bit what i thought was his hand; it came off in my mouth. repetition and variation, then, is you here. i can disappear before your eyes, killing you. a charming thing, a disconcerting thing, the first social institution. that's like getting married and thinking you can crack your wife or husband. off into the raptures you you are mad. there is a dragon under the sea guarding a pearl. remakes the anatomy without pity. then i count the lines on the page, and then count the letters in the line and find one of the letters. so then picasso has his splendor, destroyed as never been destroyed.

Like our sun, the memory the master's desire for knowledge. The exclusive modern thing has played itself out. Inside the body of the letter every social sphere shaken. They don't worship properly, they aren't Christian, they're different. The formulation can be written: the illusion of progress. I remember it seemed that the theatrical side of your work had gotten too lucky. Correct the tendency to fixate. She started to dance. Born in the ground de-linking the imaginary. And their sounds were like sleepwalking repetitions. It is salt, butter. It is first of all as poets, how they guide me. The window the bird the family the museum. Much of the bridge was intended to confront.

outside the symbols hung silent. the thing that is both known and unknown. but we remain fantastic children. the sun itself: dying. thoughts regarding the cock. the history in education. i still regret that wasted night. at the dawn of modernity. worshipping outdated gods. instituting tradition by rot. fondling in the back of a honda. never so far from home. you must touch me to touch me. we go toward the best known unknown thing.

for tim armentrout

bang on the mirror all you want. the cowboy stands beneath the brick orange moon. frame after frame fabricated space. as we find out we are. narrators who improvise arrive simultaneously. hat over eye, hand on gat. on a table under an artificial light. a no-place in which to create a world as text. blue curtains surrounding an untouched bed. pancakes every morning of the world. i want your love gratefully restrained. love the butcher. even if this can only be seen as a violent piece of writing. remaining conscious though dismembered.

The sun itself! someone said you not be given a second chance. readers, you and i stand invited to assist. the palpable absence in a newspaper photograph. a silvered handle in the door and the walls all made of cake. the miscarriage of unconditional love. the pregnancy aborted by the screen door. if only because we are delirious for the erotic life. so the sky would burn. isolated in contrast under the fold. i come back to the geography of it. in talking to myself again. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! i reproduce through these words.

there are words voluptuous as the flesh. thus my sisters were a tangling of articulations. there is that in love. for love, facing away from me, pointing a gun, is an act of self-undoing. lust of intentional indifference. the fall of feet knocking ferocious. i won't escape this conversation. this is your new name, convict. a form of otherwise vicious habit. there will be a day to find ourselves riding a crazy book. morning, midnight, i asked you to want. we were all swimming. i would've gone long ago into that final image. yet, i imagine you believe, announcing a new millennium provokes fear in the viewer.

we are having dinner at every turn of the road. i am in the foreground of every portrait. a mode of appearance on/off the lights. black and white one action over and over. mother wasn't the same trembling across the border. a daydream thought without effect. such a meta-secret bursting through the opaque screen. a newly vacated landscape. invariably transformed i have no friends but you. a story is only an artifact. in our destiny on the flesh digital noise foaming. there is no such thing as empty space. thought is motion. all in the same breath.

what if we reached out and tampered with them. twist the darkness in fingers composed of plateaus. ever so slightly detached from the body. ground holding the word who might we be to ourselves. in sleep i invented her death. Great death gives way and uprepares us. nothing imagined or imaginable. what does not change is the magic formula we are all seeking. patterns crossing and recrossing. a time without rhythm losing the taste of hands. we remain on the fringe of tongue. a cultivation of sores upon the buddha. a myriad of roads some straight some curved and narrow. invisible and in complete control you must lay down your luggage.

::

i saw a man hit by a car and thrown 100 feet. the word trouble belongs to everyone else you know. too heavy for her to drag. what history means to reason. all that filthy meat is more prized than. a paris moonshine coinciding the return of the axe. threatening and isolating. admitting failure so well we are afraid of it. grotesque little lips. can we say that the experience is other than the nudity of desire. i have a great affection for mistakes. changing more and more the experience of dying. i was supposed to go and now i am late. the stomach's relation to the blessed atrocious.

our vengeance, our cries, stay away from serious people. an aging body unused. Marx himself well understood we are not all guests of the dead. i dream i am a gay child's paintbrush. the twelve tone method becomes image becomes text. there is an instant when reflection becomes plot. the blood in my veins is pumping the history of my dreams. and, even closer, loosening. a record of wreckage. defined shaped already positioned within. their own futures revolution rings on a telephone. and with them such blatant flatness. in the regions of unconscious i am shocked by this other. like a memory of a funeral.

5

our uncanny turbulence the necklace of wishes. encouraged conjugality. no way to touch but to touch. he is having a shower and looks startled. signaling another difference in the struggle against patriarchy. destroyed by infant preachers. breathed full dream or weeping into spurts of activity. i masturbated imagining your murder. severity of its curved smile, the sensorium, the negative space. this is an ancient procedure. a way of finding the museum an inescapable labyrinth. women chanting, blind men dancing. the distance between us the theatre and its double. he holds his cock with the dumb astonishment of a child.

4

you are about to enter a certain kind of goodnight moon. making you make you make love in still light paintings. don quixote told the dog, "this is a situation we do not choose. It forms our horizon of choice, and grounds our responsibility." fuck him in the mouth with great velocity. anything that destroys limit. the insistent repetition. everything is visible, nothing is hiding. whispering there inside a structure. now i tell everything in my own language exacted out(side) of myself. this is not a poem about the mind. Suffering greatly, Don Quixote agreed. cutting it reaches, disappearing into the younger one. This museum sticks, hotly to my skin. forcing it i will likely hurt.

3

i am not a catholic. the pain in my ovaries increased. i tickle little bellies for pie. am i, in relation to the norm, a desirer. fall from the hands of hero's. how do you make love? this participation is voluntary. celebrate a defecating mutilated love. this is the last joyful mystery. my prose is too safe fucking love more than feeling pain. not a collage, a binding together. this open ended task that is a language we love in. the inability to love is something special. i refuse to be the woman i am supposed to be.

2

she just wanted to fuck in order to constitute a psychic transformation. play dumb while i fuck your beautiful shithole. dreams which resemble death reveal what is in the other that i have lost. i was lonelier than you are now. How does power work as we're fucking? what i mean is you don't understand immersion. This might prompt us to invigorate in the void of two oceans. i'll kiss you behind the two enormous gray butterflies. for reasons other than escape I want to be undone by another. don't show me that cool flesh again my love. grasp the constellations ungovernable exploding reactions in me. spit and drool and fuck for the pigs and the wolves. my world is rotting ghosted and tactical. casual strangers to the poem.

1

i want romance and it doesn't sound ugly. The failure of my writing the illegitimacy of assertion. This sexual metaphor brings me to the first problem. Sex breaks the rational mind through rupture of being. what do the sparrows eat in the winter? casting out what is dead inside they internalize the other. If I were a farmer i'd fuck my little pink pig in its little pink skin. fuck me fuck me fuck me besiege what i disavow. it was discovered meaningless as a threat. i guess love must be based on absence. we are irritable radios filled with bad magic. The thrill in which relations violently shudder. even the extraordinary is unimportant. come to the bathroom the only way to escape.