writing, in frankness, is often left
unread. Words on the page, bear
scat, deer shits plopped in their
neat little piles. A scratch and sniff
or scratch-off loto- amounts in tandem.

This voice, my instrument is worn
down and my new coat’s lapels
shine shine shiney. The scholar’s
film has settled in it’s stick- I feel
scales of ache in my hands, measured

drops of effort to save, to empower to resolve.
Conflict resolution is real bullshit, right?
If that’s the grain you take that’s your meek
identity managed by the forces you mobilize.
Or does the future, your daughters pool at the foot

Of the fates- keep weaving bitches!
Each precision movement, from
every finger pinch comes the energy
expanded. Here the woven
chains of clout and culture lie.

I want you to miss me: scream in a dream that falls
in the pitted dark.  You against me in the same spot,
that carrion of the past, pock-marks of the beat.

Want you and me to shut the fuck up?
I could begin the fling of emotions, like plates meant for shatter.

This is yesterday, so by now anathema will be
wanting love and a whisper, enjoying the turn
of your skin inside out, revealing layers that will shelter my exposure.

If she just stepped outside the pitter pat
it might bring about some solace, but she can’t escape
his ogling, his crying  not to trust the witch hunters.

Voodoo and blasphemy spew from his sniping nose
at her.  The goose rescued her the first time, you see,
but today is just them – two frozen warriors.

It rains desert sands outside but the room is a deep and verdant jungle.

He puts heads in the squeeze-box and rips.
She spirals hard, finally waking to nightmares of black and a zipper,
casting ill illuminations of her slow return.

He wants her with her thump back, but what is it she wants?

The only progress made in this room is the two flashes of mourning,
wailing fat slugs of guilt and whispers.  Both are defeated by silence,
stones of acceptance that life is an ordinary sampling of small collisions.

All her working effort spent
on pulling at norms
like taffy.  Flattening out a little
more space, more room for moving-everyone.

But I just kept screaming:
I’m broken, I’m broken.  I was born this way.
Life’s a see-saw of pain and degree;
in this pose, where’s my point on the arc?

She said we all have a right to a life and to dignity

The see-saw is self-imposed, the arc
our sacred nihilistic covenant.  A truth:
We were all born this way.
From our human-mother’s bearing.

After we leave and enter the social womb
comes nothing but difference and dissonance
till our contracts expire, and they all do, at a far
more linear point than the arc: I will die this way.

So we see that line as colored by individual influence, striking through beyond the box.

In this apex, a cure is witch-foolery
all she can be is tears.  Does she want
to go back? Nibbling through all that tissue.

Who has a more appropriate love?
She or the mannequin.

I am your ship mast
ensconcsed in a carved lady
You must push push through the blackened waves

This is me, America

Laden men, do not stand
On the moving.

Dependence in love is position on the platform:

Ran for the train you and I
found it nearly empty.

I’ve missed it-
slanted bubble, tube of

amalgam disembodied. This is all
prostitute, attention in straights.

I sat in the corner but changed
to the long bench, sharing your laughs

In the gaps of the shocks from my ear-buds,
all day no music, so I

use words like the ear-buds.
Huge spans in strings

Theory out from misappropriated fingers.