::

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.