i whisper my prayers
   as I sin in you
     sin in you
     sin in you
    sin in you
 statements losing their meaning
 in the moment
    and what is said
  is true
   but you listen to what is
   not said  unspoken
    you hang with me
    in the space between breath
 and breath
   thrust and thrust
 whisper and whisper

 information
   sperm
  time

  they are to be
 bought by the pound
   and sold by the bushel

pierced
   skewered
  eaten and destroyed

 but what will the man eat
  when
 the last woman
will go extinct

 where will
  the man
go to feed

where will he get
  his next
 meal

transformed by the sound or
rather
the expectation of sound
i observe intensely
that

which is not
that which is
and that which cannot be

what do i have
no
let me rephrase
what has me
what has to be
what has me
has to be

it is not you
not i (or I
it is simply the expectation
which yields
the absolution of absolutes
that have no equals
and no points of reference

to compare itself to
what else is
there
nothing else
only elsie's engine
and the turn
and the twist of the phase

of the fool moon
that transforms so well
under observation
changing while
(and because
it is being
observed

had taken over you
are south korea and
i am north korea

and i am a dog
chewing hard on gravel
and rocks and the sand

lubricating my throat
doesn't let me swallow
the thought of you

and i and the friends and
guests and the rock band
playing and i somewhere

off to the side saying
feverishly and desperately
i do i do i do i do i do

on the table
the tools are spread out
next to the dark stains
of the time's times
levels lowered
tone sustained

a five year old
fellates a
waterbottle

all the way to the
63rd avenue
loop

where is your
meticulous
care

all i see is residue
of change
memory

and a few old
teabags
used more than once

intangibility
time
taste

feeds me
i wonder
how the description

fits  how the
facets match
turning and

turning in the
light  refracting
this way

and that  reflecting
light & lie
beautifully

how much bananas
how is chinaski
these days

rolling in his
grave  biting
the sand

and the dogs  and
the sunset  and
despotism

starting somewhere
off  and in
the middle

wishing
for a better
life

but still cringing
under the weight
of the purchase

I bite
bite
bite the hand

a little bird tells me that the
late chinaski is up to no good again
touring the supermarkets
with ginsberg et alii

telling the world that reading pommes
de terre (all sizes  out loud is mau
vais ton  as if tone had anything
to do with anything

clever wordplay  why don't all the
greats stop whining about the f(ine
art  and blow their brains out
instead

yeah  old hunter s. knew what he was
talking about  cradle to the grave
with the same stainlesssteel grin
knowing every phoneme in the world

being able to name everything  sight
unsound  sight unseen  is still
not enough to tell the time
or the place  or the silence

i think
how does one go
from a step assumed
in trust
to the thingamajig salesman
and the bd krawcas dance around
the man labelled vaLET
me stop and talk

to the shirt
stuck to my back
and the sudden recall
that i (all metre aside
might end up a snack
for the knife of a teenage hack
but it's not for me
to decide

the cowboy makes his rounds
i dream of elephants
slow ly  ef fort less ly

i say hi  I take
languorous swigs
from the bottle

she took from me
timespace obfuscated
by the idea

of the sandwich essay
and the ménage à trois
with the coffee machine