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.

work schedule

your door broke its bell,
ringing saunter

down 17th, while you
spread your jokes

and the mouth can be so clean,
at times,

when the tiles of sanctuary
are scrubbed loneliness.

and the unmoved smiles of the web
are not enough.

and i never cared for your jokes.
the smell of them

makes me sad

like butchers cutting goats.

but we don't know any better
so i guess its ok.

and there is always next time.
i know

because the work schedule is on
the freezer,

and in the hallway,
its not changing anytime soon.

i mentioned the moon...as usual

the mornings bridges bark
inbound,

but that doesn't matter to you
your belly

is full and the heart, just empty enough
to laugh,

and carry conversations about rocks
sold on Polk street

that can break you sideways,
grant silver lips auspices

and reminds the moon to blink
bloodshot pennies

facing tails

looking forward to the next hit.

but brunch was good,
the bus ride home, empty

but you can't blame them for that.
they wake up empty,

unfueled, humming without emission.

it could have been freedom

did we replace the jungle of leaves,
with a jungle of thieves?

for there is plenty of wind in both
and

the ground feels all burdens.

a bold wind can blame the cholera
for chimera,

when the noises heard from opened windows
carries a neutral, nerveless passion

killing you to freedom,
killing me

indifference

and the last bit of child has left me,
was left by me,

in the spring of 97'

its skin dust settles sour
in the lungs of us all.

a moment in waiting tables

you told me you where done.
standing behind

our wall,

shoulders bow bent and
stranded,

holding the weight with surprising
enthusiasm.

"I'm done with now, I could die," you said.
your words, moral and

justified, mumbled between


turning tables like tricks with your
blouse cracked.

your straight teeth teasing, allowing them
to see how lies can

blow luxuries into glass-to gain
light in silence.

and, we make the salted butter in house.

And I knew it was true. because
your eyes where gone,

unfocused

telling me nothing. so I knew it was true.
why not I thought silently,

you've seen
you've tasted

been tasted, with boring tongues;

and its tiring believing
that only sober eyes

see the truth.

I offered you the night,
the skin

required to sleep, but your answer was no.
so there's nothing I can do for you.

water records

i take my contacts out. let them drop
into an old water glass

dusting its circle clean.
its satisfying

to take the day
off the eyes,

to see it floating in jobless water
thats casually leaving itself

to dry.
they say there's memory in water,

and when ripples widen, its wrinkles
are writing down

all the sounds we make. I'll take it soon
to the sink.

letting go, the sounds it keeps,
like water records

we'll both forget,

as it joins itself below the street-
and then the sea.

and the tide
gets high

laughing, yelling our quotes
to the moon.

I hear them too, from my opened window
microphone; only the nouns are verbs and

there is no room for why. but the moon
doesn't get it.

and neither do I, but we both smile
because the ocean is funny.

old noodles

what now clutters palms in rash repair
settles debts with jesters,

spitting loudly, and calling out
bluffs settled by jesters-

when the days where blinks
left to up to

the Sun.

you asked me how we could dine
selfishly-on the flesh, grown

so thick the bacon curls
itself-

and in an instant be strangers.

you ask me with sounds, incomplete

but with purpose,

unmouthed, but leaking through the hole
in your shirt.

you left the party early,
but my jeans still smelt of lipgloss

and the story you told me, about a knight
who slayed a dragon,

and lost the ability to speak.

I know now, that you could never be loved
between stares

and that lunch you spent alone.

I will never know all the bands you think
are cool,

and why you need to be stared at
constantly.

but you could never be loved

will always

be loved by someone
giving it to you hard, like old noodles

stuck to empty bowls,
turning white.