Wednesday, March 17, 2010


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.

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