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.