Hurray! Remember steaks and wine, that…
thing we said we’d do with us and you, remember? Well,

I’d say it’s way past time we’d met,
sometime this week, I said. She said,

well, lol, that sounds great. Let’s meet, yeah, definitely,
I’d not forgotten. Lets schedule
to schedule some time
this week. Well,

no rush, I said.

We’ve time for other things to schedule before that.

She had not said, who knows
how many plans the little future will bring? How many humans and plans
this little room can hold, with its little us and its little yous, over there,
right there, where you belong?

Keep in touch. Touch often, you say and I do.


Drunken Song

All ninety-nine bottles of beer were me, while you were falling off the wall of my left shoulder and into the whiskey of the pillow case. I counted one two tree, for two hundred and seven one thousand and twenty-five bottles of you on me riding away into glorious sunset, glorious orgasm, the end, as I crawl out of you, parched for a little bit of song, covered in the constant orgasm that is the rum night before birth, the white night before the dawn, you surrender my name to me. I fear for you. This is the loneliest of hours but the closest of times, when we are bottled and made to feel full to the very brim of our fingertips.

Fifty four bottles of you were me, while you were
me, falling off the cliff of my inability to count. I feel that this is the best that I can get
in terms of math but
you say “no love you are as good as
you are” as
quiet as cognac can heave the sea up
throw down the sky.

Twenty two bottles stand against you and me
towards a song made of names. Isn’t
the moon always made of names
always when it sings in its howl Radiohead voice?

Three, then one, we are the last against the wall. How
long has it taken us to find each other
like this
like alcohol left to get better with time,
without the assurance
it will.


Amazing, the city huts slowly unfold their veritable lengths
imagined wider than street oceans, broader than Sistine shoulders,
transfused into height, they scrape the sky ground raw red;

And every tree had been as quick as mountains about them,
as ancient as growth; the bushes, they swam up
the buildings’ weird arched backs and died and lived, bringing water where
there had been only old dust; there, the trees flowered

And the clouds sang, for the wind, it passed through them
and was heard;

The buildings’ glasses dissolved, the peopling eyes showed
where city’s kind
metroed from life to life, without the possibility of
a stop;

And in city’s center, you would come to realize,
for you are a grain of her as she is a dream of you,
that you had stopped moving
only because everything would grow
slow for you

Its thought kiss.

Nice trick + instructions

As if air is something that’s singularly yours (angrily), as (finally)
If you’ve been present, it wasn’t of your own choosing and
The cyber bits putting you into always were working thanks to a small (almost out of breath)
Meaninglessness, silently cajoled into empathizing with humans (or maybe threatened, perhaps with the means to enforce the threat);
(It is) a shoddy apartment in a building that’s crumbling and is soon to be
demolished (done).

(small breath. don’t make a sound) my constant river (there), you are vaporizing
Entirely and directly (painfully alert to this)
To become a dot or a sky or a string (not sure)
Of light (relieved, leaning upon clichés)
Being waged across yourself (asking)
And against me (yes),
Who are both one horizon (and yet have eyes, have selves, have shelves of reality lined behind them).

You are made of these parts but are wholly (singularly)
One and only unto yourself (not sure, yet, yes). There are eyes (painfully alert to this).
Yours (as sure as sounds are copied, and yet are different each time). Feel them focusing
like a cloud focuses on the ground.

To Get Out of the Mud, just Pull Yourself Up by the Hair

Could I ever have been anything but this enormous roomful of tails, travelling over the walls as if they are all the worlds’ time, succumbing to nothing, save the glare of gravity, which was keeping them fastened in me in the first place? Was this right? Why, yes, it has always, it has also, it has several times managed to poise itself so, that the mountain would hold by cheering itself up by its cloud tumble of hair, by its up will, by itself.