NUMBER ME HOMO

non American, on a lonely day…

we had lost touch,
even though we touched briefly—
then remised.

along a barren wall,
forsaken,
by only those who passed by.

no longer Berlin.

we fell short of the dollar,
while picking up pennies.

pants down around our ankles:
it was raining.

you were smiling,
whistling through your teeth…

lies and truth thrust-ed

and you could not stop saying:

“I’ll never be the same.”

LITTLE TITTIES

prying, naughty.
loosening more than rotten wood in a door jam.

peering towards her reflection
in a clouded mirror.

half, a step.
would’ve been noticed.

killed.

I saw you, half of you.

it was a clear night
shortly after the cotton was harvested:
nearing winter.

a faint smell of diesel fuel,
burnt stalks—a taste of satin.

the air was clean.

the door creaked open,
half way.

you saw me

and ran.

DRIP FOR ME

emerging out of a snow storm
in-to a new year—

            cleansed.

melting past melt away

a temporary reprieve from
zero degree weather

locked consciousness. humid

suffocating trash bags,
sticking to more than skin.

snow melting down poor,

            as the writer is:
            pouring cheap filthy water

staining concrete with an infinite intoxication,
easily mistaken for sobriety.

BORDER CROSSING and BIRD WATCHING

armour, amour

make me smile
the sentiment—
outspoken… socialism.

first, an understanding of consciousness

flowers grow from the cracks in the mortar beckoning a moment of silence to reflect upon differentiated geography.

second, an understanding of personal existentialism

circumstantial truth must be a bedmate (among many) of/with subjective reality,
if only to aid in the acquisition of fact, as sparse as it may be, amongst relegated experience.

the third,—way

a will to be the instantiation itself:
hand washing clothes in order to promote a new dialectic.

 

NAVIGATIONAL FINGERTIPS

hold me in your arms,
promoting creativity.

I’ve always been a sucker for mystification

take my clothes off,
and de-robe yourself.

There is no need for us to remain hidden

please tell me of times spent,
playing in the sand:
building for the sake of the tides demolishment.

growth irregular,
memories
remain stained
and fade, if so, by choice.

toss my subjectivity with the sand,
allowing your moistened finger
to determine the direction of the wind.

cast a memento towards the sea
in hopes of nothingness:
a return of null.

and may we commence,
upon a checkered blanket…

…years into the future,

to enjoy the reminiscence
of our labor.

 

quote from “Event and Decision…”

          

“humanity is surrounded,
whether we admit it or not,
by a multiplitious event cycle.

each person and thing
brings their own
personal event into
their experience
of an event

            outside

themselves.

The convergence
of this multiplicity
creates our complex world –

a complexity not defined
as aporia or impossibility,

but rather infinity –

that is always already still creating.”

DREAMS

weakness, flows like water,
rallying against you,
rapidly.

racial: white water.

stuff the seams with dirt,
growing falsity

without fellatio.

grabbing at breath,
while drowning
in the tub of unknown nightmares.