Let us not save each other for special occasions.

will we begin again?We are a wheelFirst touchfirst kissfirst heatThey fade, disappear, come back again.Spokes in our wheel.When again shall we begin again?I hold you and feel myself spincaught in the whirlwind of thrill -the world, saturated with your scent.We hold each…

I charm as any stone-sculpted dream: / men grind themselves to dust on my breasts / in solitude poets spill and spew / enraptured of my adamant clay.

When I got out I didn't buya new suit of clothes, stepinto a bar, or bargainfor an hour with a whore.I walked from McGee Streetover to Russell and wonderedif Bus 16 still went out of its wayto loop around the traffic knotat the shopping mall. It'd drop you thereif you had…

I sometimes wish I had in my brain a switch next to the illuminated image of you. A toggle I could turn off that this haunting would be exorcised. Or perhaps I could undergo a session beneath that clever contraption zapping the bits of Joel Barish's gray matter in which…

The fine blond hairs lift slightly along the skin of your arms As you nod, listening to him. The veins On your arms standing up as well I was caught in an off moment because of your skin Because of the way moisture beads up on it The youthful fi

Cold smoke from the crater Breathes on our eyelashes; The abysmal emptiness held Its breath just once.

“Can I get apple juice and milk?” “Yes.” “And a chocolate shake?” “Will you finish all that and your food?” “Probably not.” “Still yes. Get whatever you want.” The waitress took the order. Along…

Everybody's trying to just not get killed. Cut flowers. It's an illusion. The grand smell of our deathly beauty. They were so afraid of the ghost dance once upon a burning time that they decided on murder to get it to stop. Those were the days. That's…

What purpose other than misery/ can cancer serve? And Parkinson's,/ AIDS, and STDs?

We didn't make any special good-byes before you came to resemble a hundred other people I used to know.

My body is hollow, my mould made of concrete. There are no organs in me, no flesh or blood. I can't move. No muscles to allow motion. I look like a lamb but I'm not a real one, one that frolicks alongside its mother, suckles, enjoys freedom with its usual plaintive baaa.…

Love escapes into primary nouns . . .

'What now!' he thought, like a goddamn idiot, chiding himself like a fool giving himself a slap upside the head. 'Last thing I need is a shootout!'

just want to write a music note rap my hands all over my throat jump into the city to stay afloat gotta build me a damn big boat

Big hair shoulder pads hell no.

And now binoculars, the latest far-fetched method that seemed further-fetched than the others.