when we met here, on earth
there it was (defining “spirit”: a gathering – a process of cellular, pathogenic, mammalian, or galactic import, etc.)
we are here for the one who fled us

at this point, we sing your name
god was heard
some are crying
this is what we called you
one unalone
after all, it goes on

in your death
paradox made contact
and we understood where you went
as though you were made known to us
at the underside of anything unseen
there it was made obvious: material exists in a space assumed vacuous

called upon to confront our selves
turning back to try to spot
the one who broke away

we are coming for you!
no one goes on without us (defining “love”: transmutive reel. or, access.)
no one is me, no one is you (defining “god”: a gathering – cellular, mammalian, et al. bridle of wonder.)

10 minutes to tell you this

i will have lived
and i will be eaten

first, the corpus will play
a tumescent game

and letting go, disgracefully

beginning: going from innumerable junctions
unaware: losing half, and then quarter
bitten and sucked

not watching: pieces taken and used,
and i will energize something else: not watching

not to remember
not, new!

forward will mean
the need to break apart

time hot and bent to the outline of a decanter
the shape of me slowly exploding


we have lived here for a very long time

we have lived here for a long time

a black stroke arching in a frame
it was fixed, it was encompassed
all along, that anterior light
held by a nervous hand

by then
what is permanent and still?
all that pulled the curtain into after

mourning is only spent

succumb to the cataclysm of space
a womb in contraction
prepare to be undone and shown
at once

we have lived here for a very long time


to my room i go
old as sin i always hated that
nothing sinful about consequence
these arms, when tucked together, are frictive
stick to stick on stick, it’s like
no time to tell my daughter
just grip the sheet and burn
what else but bear down
set from within that wandering labor, of feeling full
through a tunnel behind my stomach, somehow
not her at all now, but me, and its coming,
a riptide sets the breath
orange and smoldering, away,
down, down a channel pinkness
caustic char sloughs to a tender ash, i’ll come when called,

hope is a hole

hope is a hole
the trim of that hole is a rope
a rope can hold, keep or contain
what’s known and oppositional

the perimeter of that hole is lips
where a mouth ends is not the mouth
any more at all
the hole is not what it was

and the hole is invisible, but how
hope is the consummate visual

where the whole is made of nothing
i find more peaceful to eat in silence






i can’t bear to write a theme where two end up the same its untrue of you it is! matter of fact interrupted by your name as the punctuate of breath is this why words are born or what is this what you are for

and all the same it was a story
parsed and strung
and sad-looking on its own

notice how the story sharpened in each hand
and some were roused by it and some were utterly complacent at it
others squealed on

but you sat like a cat
it was nonsense
but that was who i was then

squalor pulsed behind the word squalor was the baby eyelids and dead elbows the waste released in machine gun in chopped bodies in bridge jumping old dying smell what is singular is alone and stinking but pushed to the back of living word the punctuate breath the tongue the great aperture! why words are born or what is this what you are for




ready to push

An anthropologist is responsible for the documentation of the culture observed. It is with careful scrutiny that the anthropologist observes its subjects and their rituals, habits and means. The anthropologist takes special care to organize these observations objectively through writing. The hypothesis in no way determines the outcome of the study at hand.

Q: what is pleasing him?
A: pleasure makes one feel closer

Q: And so you crawl to him…
A: when i work on him i begin gently
i want to show him i’m sincere, you know?
i want him to trust me

A: it looks like he’s floating
he seems to hover above the sheets
with eyes closed and his body tense at falling apart;
i’m trying to show him dying is good
in its own way

Q: what is pleasing?
A: he pulls me down by the fistful
a crowd of balloons must
be corralled to touch the ground.

Q: And where do you go?
A: no, i stay and
i get ready to push