the intermittent rain you see over a series of days drifts
down and i am porous too the signs shelter doves i hear
them under the bridge waiting for the signals to change
often she thinks of sex while riding on the bus the way your
hands your fingers considering gauge viscosity seek pathways
in this is the vowel and in this is the verb to be to press
the case a little lower now higher up where it is permitted
to bite the mouth is an o and all parts together stem the o
there is a line to be traced and saying with impatience how
the hair gathers here darkens in the wet a formal allusion
to nature obscuring the fold which we say with hunger words
we all say in our porosity but for love, hold back a moment
afraid to perpetuate versions you might remember and dislike. cuttings and pages from dresses are yellowshifts. some are sleeping, some scratch in the dirt. pry open my mouth with bohemian coffee cake, black sugar crystals, molasses. the pretzels of lost causes i tuck into a bag, for later use on the highway. more than anything, i suppose it's just trying to thread light into the flesh (the blood) while stumbling along at a "normal" pace. as in pacing, a pacer on the track, freely whipped, slave to its tracers. holy things that go into the production of a river in a juniper oak, stiff patterns tatted, cotton on the velvet cuff.
one recalls an earlier form. housing for a different constellation
of thoughts, where emotions hurtled through marketed space, hair
the thickness of a day, and blood traveled, transporting angry debits.
architectures. textures, fonts stemmed and pregnant. handwriting,
the fingers less disciplined. habitual type, rising under frottage
recorded on the stones, the flesh - where once stroked, now text
relieves itself. each sentence has its cargo, drags single file
over empty salt flats, running on metaphor, running on pixels.
drugged on blogs, he says "pharmakon." there you have it, another
rub. not to erode, but make visible to the naked eye. tender
looks, maybe something you don't want to see. bulosan listed (it
seemed habitually) the towns we don't want to remember, the names
fish smell, piss smell, continually fucking to get the bad names
out of the body. cleanliness is robotic in this sense, absolved
of ethics there is always beauty, a three line stanza, a pattern.