1 rude reality intrudes
its bulging
and inflamed
nose, about

which hangs
the paunchy
and florid
cheeks,

blud strung
by fine and
very narrow
little veins,

that weblike
spider across.

in their thinness
straying
(uncarefully)
the neck down.

the hair is lank.

the eyes distended,
in which,
their is some sheen
dulled.

the ******* hang,
(are limp),
flaccid
and pendulous.

it feels the each,
the mouth into which
sun crawls
moon sings
and trees

suddenly bluster
with and with.

a lark
a poppy
and the breaking

of darkness before

a fist swollen of
red newness to be:


(to be hard ; to be naked ; to be great)

.                                                                                            i
                                                                                               have stood in right fields
                                                                                                 looking thickly dark up
                                                                                                   at sky blue sun cloud and
                                                                                                      ***** steeply careening night
                                                                                                        digging little graves
                                                                                                           a 1000 1000 little graves
                                                                                                          burning tiny tombstones
                                                                                                         and keen with every hair
                                                                                                        on end lifting up my eyes
                                                                                                       to fornicate with the dainty
                                                                                                      fraction of frailing day's
                                                                                                     curving head
                                                                                                   i
                                                                                        drank
                                                                            of its corpse
                                                                         and was like
                                                            living and unliving
                                                flesh bone *** and magic
                                                  of dust and salt tasting
                                                     wind by the elbows
                                                     of incessantly skin
                                                   ocean stars spring
                                                    (and winter was
                                                   there but barely
                                             and it was almost
                                         warm and i pulled
                                       the loose leather of
                                         my jacket a little
                                        and
                                              





                                            )

i like you dyin'
your blissfully crisp
lucious pulled
tightly dyin'. your

bursting thinness the

skinny your arms

the(bytheway) your eyes

which(shining)gleam faultless eternal


andthe
your whynot perfectly hips
which carry like the burning of my cut
(with your cut)to
meet

                                ;  as ships



i and think do you
like dyin'

and you i like
(and like you i) a girl that
likes girls
                     (dyin')


likes





i

i have always wanted to write a poem that
thin wristed

smiling at stupid jokes

with hair tiny thousands dark

wanted to listen to French jazz on Saturday mornings

a word comes,
and do you know it?

have you perceived it much?

have you been within
the embrasure of its
flared walls?

or walked through its ensemble--
the robed meal of it,
the silken and profuse
excellence of its livid body?

a word is a vagrant.

it passes the lips,
and into the world

(roots, nettle, and tine)

becoming within each thing
it moves, the hulking arousal
of vibrant self.

or it is some inept smallness.

mumbled erstwise the flawed
****** of a dumb mouth.

it tumbles,
relaxes,
being the body
and the root of the body.

a word is the flesh,
and the kiss of a wife;
the small depression
of a child's heart,
pressed swiftly
between canale
and capillary
into perfuse
exhaustion
of running laughter.

a word is the foamed sea,
washed over each grain,
until smoothness pervades.

a word is the grass,
threshed underfoot.
easing of its body
some tender
moisture.

a word comes and uncomes.

how have you known it?

and does it become you?

come into a word
and the earth will
enumerate you.

it will become the everything of your self:

the namechild,
and hand within--
the flexed carousing
of your muscles,
and folded effusion
of thy clattering laughter.

each pairing

  --parting--

comes over words
lips over
sounds of
throats young.

hubble bubble
(outside)
below the window sill:

                
                        summer; and; ******

"Maybe someday I'll find someone that actually cares about me."

To know life is to understand that we, each of us, is a lover, selfless, kind, demure–but also that we are, simultaneously, haters, selfish, cruel, avaricious; and that in that very contradiction, is life.

of such it is to dream,
more dreamless nights to become

that fleeting which
like a breath escapes

into crystalline diminishing
and the loose tightness
of October.

"The only reason I haven't committed suicide is because I'm terrified of death."

drink dreams
rushing with flowers

(somewhere


alone

and with gin   ) carefully

intercoursing with females
and speaks coursing with
hares a lark and suddenly

it is winter

(into who barely he fits himself)

a radian–and spring.

Do is everything because becoming by the hands of our repeated selves
(or so i'm told by Nietzsche is a really ******* ******* that can't
Kant a **** thing about a thing-in-itself give one flying **** too
many after hours drinking way low into the bottom of some end
i–means–met by the dark absorbing linger of neon around sign
talk talk talking about how Nietzscher'd teach yer about a thing
made of its own ******* will "you **** me or what)"?

think: what muscles
(the heart's
are stronger) often

they coil in distinct
perfume of girlness; soften

(fiber upon)

and weakness easily
becomes:


think

it seems the brief
nothing of my
hands cradle
the sweating brow
of my child
sleeping so hardly
within the quiet
of her breath--

the smallest pressing
of her chest the
largest miracle of life.

her hair is fine
and golden--
the light comes somewise
the follicle full
and brimming in
brilliant strands.

my wife is beautiful and i love her:
she has given me the most
beautiful gift in my children.

she carries in her body the torch
of into swallowing enormity:
whole darkness.

on the withers of a pale horse,
riding into that good night,
she bears making.

a maker before all craftsmen,
she creates through effort of her flesh
the most exacting somethingess of being.

i hold the makings of
her hips in my arms
and they are the most
beautiful thing i have
ever seen.

flower the hands and lips cannot
contain the pistil always running
red over the cusp of your budding
blossom,
              .

Even in notSpring,
when it shouldn't be full of pollen;
but little bee by mind of flesh
reminds your pricking to always
burn a little needling with
incessant urge to fill the
dark space between thigh:

(there is something slendersmooth
and easy to be inside of–

                    (like the earth)––

                             ( like death)–––

there's some



            (destroying) inside you that

                              

                                  i
                                l   o
                                  v
                                  e

                                  i
                               l
                                  o
                                      v
                                          e

                                 and

                                 i ' m

                                mad

                      to have inside me


                         (destroying)

.
































          "If everyone were equal how would anyone have any value?"

I am not myself
nor were I; know a thing
this body's just fantasy
this mind but a dream

let me think,


you are flesh
not flesh as
blood or
bone entwined

by limb, but
flesh as soul
through body
and lips–

how again these alive with men breaths
go to work and stop their living
on balance and "problem solving"

every morning to make
just stuff with which to have
a little this and a little that of
life and drink merrily with

friends, a neat car
and to
(perhaps)
longingly ******
between the lives of others
even more life:

it is completely appropriate;
and to be strange is maybe
responsible if you have an cat and
have to get home early to feed him–

(cats can't feed themselves)

he says under the breaths
he is
going to work
on balance
and "problem solving"

Every  Morning

girlsome that immortal which
by vibrant edge of slivered day

         (    stops suddenly   )

the miraculous bulge and clumsy twitch
o' sweetly crimsoned even's fay

hello.

you are there
you are something
i think that you are easily dreamless.

you are the white
turning over of pale morning
into your neck and the pooled freshness of your *******.

you are these two things:
my hands–which make within
themselves bloodsong and wine.

finely twined with pale wire,
your eyes rest below your scalp:
they are chips of ice–limpid; ****.

(you stir you pull your hand into my
hand i kiss over the sleeping of your
white cheeks i stroke your golden hair
i slip my leg under your leg:

I can never touch enough of you.)

who has been my own heart
that within its flesh
there is some self
as i could touch;

after my own touch,
which within their own heart
beats?

.































































­




                                                 ok Spring let's ****




























































­




.

of your inconveniently perfect face
there 2 eyes utterly
big and effusive of laughter

almost larger
almost drunker
of beauty than the
rest of you nay never

there is of you a body
who is a divine rush
-ing river through my hands
is delightfully irridescent
with the heaped lather
of ***

.































































­













     "You might be a vegan, but I swear your skin is milk poured into the careful shape of your body."


























































­

























.

some things in me dying are gods
(but not magic

    no


                                 magic always


unfurls 'er little
tickling
in my
and
                   i

                                )she the


              magic


to caress
'gainst my cheek

the easy span:
her innerest thigh

(i to kiss which up
crawl
fantastically into
tightness


                andie    )

i you the world


               tread

'pon the wind


      lightly we


dash across deeply curving hushness
our lips to kiss

every blade o' grass sweating
somewhat demurely to ****
by the flutter of breath
and the sting of hulking Summer

to liven slumber
and stir darkness into light

(we should go to Paris where i will
with my not always hands
pierce your youth
and wear you on my fingers singing


singing i

wi

         llwe'll

go to the neck of everything
and die so hotly crushing
our bodies on bodies

we'll die in the rain

we'll die


we'll die



we'll die(kiss

.



























                  "I'm objectifying you–you're an object to me."





























.

muscles slung blonde strands
tawny straights snuggling
against your *******(like me
on the clump of your
unrigid stomach taught
over your creeping)

           I hast spake
           with thy timidest
           notion
           briefly
           small pouncing
           wrists
           on your hands
           supple so
           chambers
           flung wide
          
your bones
          are the words
of every poem
                         i have
                                     writ
                                                                                                                                 (not even the wind
                                                                                                                                   has such soft

open me–in this thy woken self;
please me be, within thy cloven helth.

loose thy lock:

o' woven skin and flock of grass,
where Spring hath root
and worm has pass.

be this blithe o' bonny bell
that peels in darkness a golden tell;

for thee, for thou, my hands are made,
to tend thy soul
                             , and flowing glade.

on the steps of an old house sits a bright boy
(his hands are full of sleeping and flowers are)
he is in the summer a bit and there he is
sitting a bright boy on pale steps with his hands
full of sleeping and flowers are carefully and
he plucks each from and each from he plucks
their petals on the old steps of a house in
the hot pash of sunlight sits a bright boy, who

dying is that a little girl x63
going into dust as from which
came her just sixty three years
ago not loved once within
them or met with the kind
smile of anyone but her old
little cat that just as her within
became as into dust like
(From which they were breathed)
that 63 years ago pile of used to be

not to live is normal
more normal than to live is
to eat and sleep too late
on saturday mornings
or to meet with cloven
skin the bare rawness
of your chest .




more normal than to is,
is to is not wasn't never was and
won't be ever more than
the gesture of your thighs
threaded with moonlight
on sweaten summer eves.

and to because
i assert it is more normal
than to kiss to with lips
,the dirt, i

my hands and body
would like to unusually be

in your breath and body's lee.

everyday i'm discussing with everyday, myself as i make out to the glamouring
the inches and dashes of every self i have
and stitches of sinew here in which lies the me that is this i, i that am

i walked in leaves of grass, of wriggling splendor's summers of shoulders
and achy crimsoned necks by the suns meters of light
measuring the stints of our crawling opaque days and suns of many sons

it's very that is that even when sun should repose his ***** of uncadenced
carefully miraculous shimmering blood
like orange and ardent flesh he'd go on us it, giving his very stuff our bodies

to wear on our wheres and whens and whys. is night not also beautiful?
it is naked beautiful. **** and beautiful
plenteous and beautiful with all its hearts in tinder palely igniting every

atom of copious earth. bowls of copious illuminant children, the things
which will become after us
the us that we were before their coming. but they are gorgeous and neither

would i weep if in my going they should take that space where were was
i. resting the shouts of my self
in the orchards of youth, i am now so but it's quickly running, flitting

eagerly from my this. in vines and plurals i am single and many. neither
none nor many. but many ones,
little bubbles of tranquil vile fluid guttering the songs of wind.

i go to streams and they are me. i go to mountains and they are me. i go
to valleys and they are me.
can i be streams and mountains and valleys? can i not be streams and

mountains and valleys? they are weeds and i am a ****. a **** is a rose.
i am rose.
i am blossomed in full spring. able of petals. i am turned to the sun, with my

root between the lips of earth. who is my lover. the earth is woman.
she is a ****.
a **** is a rose.

by another name. they smell just as sweet.

that kind of "*******

i ' m

goingtosmoke

a cigee                       "is



(to me)          so




so body
andso

it's

dying stupid wonderfully
to taste like

when lips are our(andtongueplease

come this day with me and look upon the earth.

She is a wise
wide at the hip
deep into her
basin where

the folding occlusion
of her bulging lips
contain the
exstatic pearl of life.

she is full:
her thighs
abound over
in supple fat;

her moss is
golden she hangs
a bent beam
on the running
rill from her

cleft bump,
the hillocks
suffused in
grass rollick
and distend
pleasantly.

within where
the waters
part themselves
into blood
and wine.

Her mucous
is secrete:

it flows
en-opaled.

The eyes are for it.
The mouth is for it.
The hands are for it.

it holds wide itself,

(and tight and suffuse
and secretly languorous)

for all who would enter;

and ALL entering is here.


And leaving too
is here:

there is entering and there is exiting here;
one quickly after the other,
or at the same time,
or at neither--
entering and exiting all the same.

She is a worm hung
and in her cellar
is some moist rot;

but do not dismay
for as entering and exiting:
from rotting there is birthing.

And how we are born.

And how we come from her.

And how we come into her.

And are made the same again.

the dark thing that you are inside:

                
                    i love it


that it is
salt thin
blood wonderful
to press apart

as like to press apart
the darling stocks
of naked flowers


                    And,

it is like
it likes to be
hushed
handled
flush

within hand
to uncurl
the little strange song
of its **** throat

(and i love it
its quiet
and small intensity

burning 'gainst palm
the enormously delicate flicker
of its rough flame)

my dear
(and i love you that)
you are
(inside)
dark

horrible to touch
and painful

to release,

        .

  ,

        .


                ,



        .

my wife,

you are my flesh,
within your flesh:


            (my son)

who sleeps within you.

i love you that you are me,
and i am you;
inside your body
which sleeps beside me.

unto to this day(–drugged
as which with
the sonorous
pull of jazz                            )

a dream is born
of coiffed in sighs
of drunken fuzz

the hurl burl
clap trap
of Paris ,

occasionally a girl mouth;
tongues; the
divine laughter
deep

within thighs(

where lays
a flower of April

                         (

giddy young and tight

)

immortaly dying

)

and serene

i will be dead someday i wonder are you
reading this and who are you and where
is it that you have come and been and
have your eyes collected between them
each word of myself and this is the only
thing i suppose being but dirt and a little
scant ash (maybe atree) grows above me
and did you ever think the same hands
that held your son would be worm food
mud and birds meal (a robin maybe) R
there still robins i hope you kissed a
pretty girl last night I love you more
than anything .
                          .
                          .

.




















"Rule #1:

Don't give a **** about anybody;
because nobody gives a **** about you."

































.

speak me young
the ***, your mouth
in clovers hot

transcending bond of mortal rot

('tsstupid your
   the mouth
   and swollowed
   tighly
   throat               )


lift, cleaving
petals of neatest night

carry to heaven(oh and

YES
when your hands
quickly
wig my
burning ******          )the( i'm

fist the
kitty
yer
smell very erectly  ) coffin


       'o mundane plight
( i'll push between yer stocks
         a
   *****
        like
      they
        'llpush
          a
      *****
    'tween the dirt
where yer'll sleepin'

              lay                   )

I.

do you know?

have you been?

have you been by the slant ways behind the hills there is store and have you
wandered much in it?

have you gone down the little rows and counted them?

have you looked into the tired eyes of weary mothers and fathers?

have you seen in them your mother and your father?

have you kissed with them your thoughts and wondered on the small
mystery of their being?

have you wondered at them looking at you(and what do they see)?

have you thought to reach out and touch them and ask them how they are doing?

have you wanted to look in their eyes and tell them that you know they are tired but there isn't much left to go and you know how hard it is and that you are sorry and that they are as soft and as infinite as your own self?

have you dreamt much?

have you gone out from the store, into the nice mouth of the city, and have you seen the same tired look in the same weary bodies?



II.

where have you been in the Summer?

have you been by the bank of a river?

did you let your toes in it, and did it feel so cool as to rush across them you suddenly want to pull them out?

and how did it feel, the first time you were kissed, and sweaty between the arms, you pushed in even tighter?

have you laughed much?

when was the last time you laughed?

did it feel as if it was the last time?

did you watch your laughter curl away into nothing like a vine of fume from a smoker's mouth?

did you watch it curl away and wonder if you might be lucky enough to laugh tomorrow(and did you wonder how many more days and nights you might be lucky enough to not laugh)?

did you cry after you laughed?

did you look down at your hands and marvel at the intricacies of your bone and flesh?

did you ever hold them up against the night sky and marvel at the tinniness of their work? (have you held them up before your face in a dark room and wondered what it would be like to not see?)




III.

have you struggled much?

do you ache, and are you sore?

do your muscles hurt?

do you feel heavy with obligation?

do you feel tired from living, and with life?

from where does your pain begin, and where does it end?

did it begin in the hands of someone you thought you loved? did it end in the empty stare of someone you thought loved you?

have you hurt anyone?

how did you feel?

did you tell yourself it was ok?

what did you tell yourself?

who were they?

why did you hurt them?


IV.

are you awake?

are you reading this?

will you wake up tomorrow (and every tomorrow until you don't), and will you remember this moment?

will it fade into nothing?

will you recall it suddenly in some still moment?

will you look out the window of your car on your way to work and catch the sliver of some stranger's face in the quick of your mind?

will you wonder on their life, and the sliver of your own face, caught in their mind?

and will you remember?

will you remember?

It is still here now, I think.
Perhaps.

The land is still.
The grass is still.
The water is still.

(the rain faintly against the glass is still.).



The earth is private in the smallness of its breathing.

It is the smallness of my son’s breathing.

I stand over him and I listen and I watch.

He breathes and the smallness of the world sleeps with him.


(my wife snores.
my daughter rustles in her crib.)


It is still here now, I think, perhaps.

my wife that i love you are sleeping
heat over heat
of my ankle yours ;

the trilling
thrum of
your snore is long

longer than the long night
of unsleepingly my body,

heat under heat

of your body mine.  .  .

i hear occasionally our son
also whose snoring
is small
small
sma
ll er

than he is
(can you believe?)

.































































­




















                                      "Did you ever really love me?"



                                      "I don't know."


























































­





.

it's autumn i cannot believe how i am alive again
the trees are and the day
in bits of orange
recedes into dark
fathoms of unday,

i wish my hands held
your hands that like
god hold the making
of every little nice thing

and every little ugly thing
of making inside me though

               –i wish–

how suddenly fragile i was
when we were

even though
we never                        were

. It's autumn

and i cannot believe how


i am alive

what could be more ridiculous than

this moment?the

sunmoon bloodfingers and

fucklovely

spate of effulgent  starlight; Darling that

your lips suddenly
seem to do? (my hands

the curling
of a cute cut
in clear water

a slendering
band of crimson

tracing the arcuate heap
of life's reeling–

caving to fill
in blistering flens
of brilliant
dying
instants–

,"I love you." the sand
a beach occasionally
the back seat of an old
car the sleep fitfully
morning of rising
too early into your mouth
a flower gleams by
broken of silence
sunburnt and smelling
of aloe rubs
with the cool rub of
coiled muscles , . ;                            (my Dear
                                                                  w
                                                                      e will die)
                                                            the night will
                                                            trun upon a blade
                                                            of light; our
                                                            skin will bunch
                                                            into delicate
                                                            rills of dry
                                                            coils and
                                                            dust become.    .          .                   .









                                                      BUT,

dear i will hold (you) that impossible violence of the first quiet moment of
your lips that i held slightly in my own i will hold it in my heart that
unbroken stem of your frail laughter of supple vibrance made my dear i will recall the hurt wildness of your eyes and bruise of your soft voice
my dear i will hold in my tiny hands the vast pulpit of your hairsong
and bloodpoem my dear i will forget not the dull and moments each
i will remember the early mornings and lashed travail of each lashing
voice.


                                   (My Dear I Will Hold You.
                                    I Will Carry You.
                                    INTO THAT NEAT DARKNESS
                                    . i will cup the serene mystery
                                     of every stupid minute of our
                                     body and dear
                                     i
                                     w
             i
              l        
                l

.