You are the wierdest, most cruel

Woman I know.


B E G I N

----Why?
----And where did that come from?
----You should have said "Thank you."
---- "Well, aren't you?!"
----And then the slide...


B A C K W A R D S

----To A Letter Never Sent


And the night passes without sleep--- the sound of the cold mass awakening the roosters and engines to lonely crows...In my heart, I am writing you a letter, speaking plainly of how I miss your hand; of how sorry I am for being angry at this path both you and I chose and unchose, only to be still intertwined and knotted by distance. You and I try to pass time--- waiting for what will never come for it had already come; and time has passed us. Time--- you and I will be haunted by what cannot be lived even as we live. You only have to see-- this man unhappy, sliding the world away--- the pain of not having his happiness that still talks to him, bewitches him, still cruel. Last night I gave what should have been yours, my hand, and there is no guilt in giving what is owned to time that just occupies the heart.


B E F O R E

----To A Crocodile


To be with strangers and itching---To see people standing----To order and drink to sleep---Tomorrow, lost in the loss of toxin--- The toxic taste that lays waste----How come these faces are known yet strange. I wait for pieces of words to string socially---I've become a barley whale. And so it is normal to become silent and string these words silently--- To be approached and asked about the withdrawal--- Or about illustrated stories--- As if words are not sounds swallowing images. They are all standing up while the Good Dude and I stay sitting, in repose, waiting. I am missed tonight. It is this isolation and silence--- sitting, I am almost asleep, with better eyes, four, make me tired more. If I close my eyes I would fade--- And I am missed, still burning and waiting to be filled.


B A C K

---- To Some Lot At 1:_ In The Night


And so isolation is this: a red monobloc table and chair eavesdropping on drivers talking about being drivers to politicians---- I mingle with the seedy and I feel dirty. I am lost without a watch and I wonder if anybody notices. Tonight I wanted to find out what it means to be immersed in the quagmire of the normal grit; This is not my world and I am horrified. My bottle remains unopened and I wait to open. Does anyone notice absences? They are all caught and those in my world are waiting to be horrified about where I find myself sitting. It is quiet--- that desertion. I am sitting in an empty parking lot with the city's night sounds---night insects, slap of mosquitoes, the rumble of a motorcycle, and the voices of grit singing love songs.


B R A V E

----The Crowd That Is Tuesday


And there's our life's motto, during our time, "But Only God Can Make A Tree." And I laugh, still wanting to jump to Ska's voice, my friend, after all the distance. I am remembering the times we were so close in tokes and jokes, that pool. And you sing, "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah..."
---And you ask later, "You just arrived?"
I shake my head, pointed to the crowd, pointed up where there is space: I am in the right place for our age. We are all tardy. We have all grown and growth comes to us in waves of dreams made real. We still come in silent paths, making silent waves--- black, white and red pebbles, still in costumes and mechanized voices distorted by machines. And the hypochondriacs, my people, have become a nation of Lysol.


----Before, There Was New Wave

Wincy Wonky was asking how I knew Mitch My Vitch.
---A Long Time Ago Laugh
"Death By Tampon?"
---Way Before When Marc Abaya Was Still Fat Laugh
"Are you in a band?"
---That Would Be The Day Laugh
"Are you in the fashion industry?"
--- How Absurd Laugh
"Then what are you?"
---Human Trafficking The Space Central To Venn Diagrams Laugh


B L I N K


Lope says, "Hey!"
---Yo! Lonely?
Lope says, "Where are you?"
---Here! Come!
Lope laughs, "Okay!"
--- Go! Go!
Lope asks, "Uh, where's here?!"
--- To Cleft The Devil's Hoof Dude!


B R E A K


---10
Sometimes I feel as if I were in a fish bowl, watching how I am not like what and who I see. There is that displacement and it is lonely. Last night I felt my body screaming---- the fever inside from exhaustion and droning talk. I am waiting for conversations while my body defrosts from the cold inside and outside the world wakens, thrums, drones to wake into a mega machine. My body unfurls, unravels--- stretching to a break.

---9
The morning is crisp and the buildings do not stir--- except for the tricycles, unwilling and lethargic machines.

---8
I do not like Zombie Ink.


B O R N

----The Zombie Was Born


A grown fetus under a desk on a lunch break and his name is Eleanor Rigby. Eleanor says that he is curled just like that so no one could see him--- especially the dragon, shhh, don't, make, a, sound--- and that is a very warm like the monster's mother's womb he could never remember.

It is this wondering about dreams and what it means to the sex between, Eleanor says, It is this weirdness and you just see and know what is weird and fucked up. And you like how it fascinates, like waiting in this room that feels emptier as each word comes and comes leaving the cursor unreplete but stinging from not knowing the hands of this loneliness. Whose nails are lingering over untouched skin. Whose body was it really that had wanted to mate with the corpse. This body has become sleepless and listless--- a ghost becoming its patience.

Or is it the game that the whores of human traffic play--- the minutes of waiting and blinking cursors--- the clock of this is real; it is waiting.

The zombie is inside this desiring and I am murdering it in the clinic that is my words, this logic of the probable being made impossible, an aborted fetus of fucks. The laugh revolts:

---To Wonder Why A Corpse Wants To Make Love To A Zombie

---Psycho-Killer

---Qu'est que c'est

---Tatatatatata

Ah, to be human syntax.