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.

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.