a blind man makes a cake

the blind sees the difference
between right

and what is left

to trickle down
between cracks strategic

between lemons wedges modified

between jet fume air surprise
because the colors are absent

and the pilot flies
spreading message assistant
for reference

blending horoscopes
with coffee makes the mind wonder

like egg whites foaming, with plenty of air
between thoughts

to keep the conversation light
but it makes the cake rise

and no one likes a flat cake

swimming primitive

I sailed your severed skin savour

while smiling.
cupped hands

catching telescopes on time
like juggling Alvarez

throwing stones
at the temple gongs-

to quench what swells

while breathing. I could surprise your
mouth with mine.

follow touch

with touch
but in the door way

flounder-swimming half faced

into the sand
swimming primitive

the way i learned to do.

you couldn't make me flip
but that doesn't mean i can't.

the difference between here and there is
the tea I used to drink, during double shifts,

at that restaurant we all hated working at.
I called it the trinity;

mixing black tea, coke, and coffee together
made everybody's lips curl downward

made mine move money into pockets
to buy drinks

later
when the slip resistant shoes

were hung dry.

now I just drink and remember
what life was like when I didn't give a damn.

twenty three and taller,
twenty three and fucking like

the wold will end if we didn't.

the physical

the physical

tunnels deep
holes burrowing

bandits

cutting backwards

cutting

cutting doberman ears
to hear the Sun.

stunning liberty

standing sane
with room to breath

bares little subsidies
for the damages filled

filling soundless

filling subways temperature

filling ungraceful substitute
before the body can feel.

your colors steel my sound

untouched
highway nails painted bite marks

track forward

trapping lungs in astroids
leaving

osiris to kill the moon for silver

and thursday mornings spent with ills.

and the mind can betray
the mind will always betray
the savior that hides

a sutures tangle

like blueberries picked in secret

or the light at the end of alabaster.

the flavor of celerity at dawn

the fear of luxury is mutual.
I can see it in their mouths, between

breathes of cold. it leaves with the last
bit of fog breath attachment-

but it does not last the wind. i bought in
once. the winter grey could not be seen then,

tasted then
painted on lines of sight then.

and the air was so clean

on december streets, blushing bootleg blues
emotion, but it could not last the wind.

the weight of debt is mutual.
I can see it hidden

in pea coat pockets
carrying elephants eating eggplants,

and paintings of still life-without eggplants-
bought with credit

extentions; so we all could have long hair.
its december again

and assembly is lost in the winter grey

like the taste of lemon seeds
in tonic,

or the flavor of celerity at dawn.

unknotted

im good at knots.
the problem, it seems,

is the twin-
with fibers impartial to
juncture,

impartial to circumstance,
and the curtains you will hang

when you get your shit together.

i eat simple,
sipping life through

slotted spoons dripping,
and the good

drops
beneath the lips

and onto the floor,
so the cat can know brevity-

her nose smells the breach
of decent.

losing interest,
she attends the

fake mouse
sitting still.

they are...

the both of them...bored.

and here i am-alone,
sitting with the mouth
itching,

hands, incased in air imprisonment,
and can
not touche you-

a plastic pillow case of sinless saunter;

coating confidence,

and i am found
wanting you-

unknotted.

it can not be found
in all the moments taken by breath
left to lead the eyes forward,

to awake-
ness

to impress the sheets warm-
ness

to breath, shameless sleep forward-
ness

while sleeping.

the toes are curled, and
memory, to engaged in dreams

for walking.
it would not be found

in rosary beads blushing her
breasts expressive (and she

wore it the whole time)
it could not have been found there

but i didn't mind looking.

It will not be found
in lesson,

when words require words
to feel, be felt

and fucked
under disposition. it can not

hide in thoughts given.
nor does it hide in movements,

faking movements, while all the waves
dream of clean breaks.

it has not been found in squares.
making circles optimistic-but not easier
to draw.
-
it has not been the breath taken;
that leads me to raffle.

nor is it a moments clutch in error, as it
exits, chain linked

imprisonment-as it leaves-

fatal connections in tact and toe;
so its not their fault

to follow.
no, to raffle is nature.

its body swells on cue
its temperature humor foreskin removed
by old men

with old problems and young minds.
-
it can not be found in you
or found without you

it has not been found in me.