50 2 0
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Who owns the moon? What title search/
could ever make a claim?
|
95972
|
If I should stumble into cheerfulness/
remind me of all the business models
|
131163
|
Your finger quivers as it writes
Upon me words in water,
Words I cannot read nor drink
But feel them as you drink
Them with your tongue
|
500
|
They hunger for new real estate/
and those resources underground/
that photosynthesize to blazing yellow flags
|
60800
|
Down Hawkling Street, The shadows have come and gone The bar, torn apart from the cold and lonely bullets The lights, they stay awake No more kisses She waits for the empty company A shallow visitor to use and abuse As she walks, they…
|
1034129
|
Who owns the moon? What title search/
could ever make a claim?
|
83375
|
They hunger for new real estate/
and those resources underground
|
400
|
I write to remember/
in the language of lips and ears/
what pictures speak in the language of eyes.
|
88110
|
If this isn’t Paradise, what is?/ Your own eyes wide with/ the imagination, the knowing,/ the not-knowing of it all.
|
12361310
|
Uncounted hens and piglets/
die at my demand. The killing floor//
runs red for me. I am/
monstrous to creatures small and great,
|
615129
|
I was a form without body.
|
158599
|
feeling obligated to write/ is like feeling/ obligated to fuck.
|
12771710
|
I write to make visible my small/
assertions against impermanence.
|
1531110
|
the kind of thing that begins with a fist
|
47500
|
It’s the longing from another life inside that pulls me along by the fine hairs below my navel, exposed at the midriff, and by the short fine hair at my neck, also the dense bunch between my legs, as you might imagine. And it’s the longing of the love I
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