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 worshipping outdated gods.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.