Pressed shirts, 70’s jacket manufactured
in Hong-Kong, smell of fractured liaisons
faxing, emailing, smiling
through beguiling gymnastic rabbits.
I make an impression of fingertips on the glass
Andy Warhol would have ripped a vocal chord
should he have come face-to-face
with this Pintresting chaste Tim Burton
space, unevenly paced
birth-day party dressed up as
job-interview. The high How-Are-You’s
and hand-pandering shakes me to my core.
Is this the adult-world warned of
and written in diaries of mad-women
only given the choice between illegal sex-work,
and legal sex-work? Pant-suits, after all,
are hyper-gendered stereotypic,
picturesque working mothers come to
steal jobs. And clothing must be professional,
it’s no accident that fetishes include
uniformity. We can’t keep profession
out of the home, like Mr. Big can’t keep his enormity
away from his secretary’s mouth. But, we love
power-dynamic, don’t we?
Even when our celebrations are decaying
and the good-byes are exchanged,
the host doesn’t know if they deserve praise or shame.
Did they put on the right clothes, did they
forget their names? Haven’t they
forgotten their own! The title of their childhood!
That old home that travels with us,
staring back at us, standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror.
Shea butter on hand spread bitter
palm,to wrist,to wrist,to palm
rivering, weaving, between fingers
balm against lips, war paint under eyes .
Summon moon and traffic police light
An Ultra Blue, ink i ng the nigh t,
Sta lk s of l egs, praying « mantis » throughout
a dewy stone floor
Hollow stars fall from pixel-flickering
tiny flames reflecting in
burning nameless comet-trails down cheeks .
Crisp paper feathering; dried lilies
up at me
gazing from the grave .
Earth is always singing: we are always dancing.
Some believe God is inside of us all.
During the Big Bang, the bell shattered
good intention spilled out every elsewhere;
our dictionary cannot help us map the stars,
but damn, do we try
to use it.
My brain must be a
pool of wires. I hope the connections are
secure. Should I interpret this
creature looming over my shoulder?
Is it God? Is the devil at my fingertips?
Does my piano suffer from cognitive dissonance?
I ask too many questions. My canvas is
getting full. It’s always dripping.
I can’t help but miss the first beat. I’m too shy
to dance. So, I try to sing, too. But, Earth is much louder
I hesitate too much. My chords are
disconnected. The progression isn’t easy to follow.
It’s hard to keep tabs on a mind that
looks in the mirror, and declares,
« I see you. »
Sun falling; light leaves unrecognized
ink blots in my eyes. I walk into a store,
wearing tuition money as a thrifted worn down
army-brown, the door-attendant asks
« Can I help assure you walk out having spent
the blood of your father? » She
smiles with her eyes because, her cheeks would
shatter. I can tell she doesn’t recognize
my ink blot eyes.
I carry her question in my pocket, and my
cell-phone weighs a heavenly ton,
so I remove both. I cannot find myself
in the screen, and the junior department
For a second, in a flash, behind winter coats
and sweatpants, I see trees.
To be feminine is to be wild, fully
functional. A machine with feral wirings,
journal entries, cerebral networking, talking to
each other. Doesn’t he understand?
I see him in the forest; Jean Toomer,
singing a folk song, holding his walking stick,
his sugar cane. River, ocean, tides of Ophelia
would dissolve him.
What is a man, without his stick? Do I need
guidance? Am I stuck?
I have the option of throwing myself in.
« In » a shady, empty haunting.
He notices me, and offers his
money. Commodity. I need it. I
need it. I need it. I need
it. That blood. That sugar. That
security. I can no longer commune
with winter-bringing white.
So, I toss my scarf into the bin on my way
out. The door-attendant rings
like a may bell, saying, « I’m sorry you couldn’t find
what you were looking for. »
川 空 声は 『時間』 から
風 野 追跡
炎ように揺らめき 瀧 門
Equation & Conversion
giving = receiving
Anemony lungs, embracing veins
Filtering venom, passing down chains
Vapor waves, tanks, storebought
Shooting pastel bullets, rainbows anchoring joy
∞ duration (feeling)
Time, effervescence, babies crying, .
I still love you
Photographic shards of
glass Fall from trees
cloaked in mid
winter graces Dancing drops of
Light is our primary currency
Is that still in your heart?
Does the love still fit Do
You remember The language
Lost Remain Recall Re
Habilitate This fledgeling desire
Smiling Reflecting in each of
These seeds raining
Heaven into your sugarbird nest
Shimmer Argon oil Collecting
Sun rays Fool. Weary
Traveler Step into the light & dance
Roots are the steady feet of
Gods & rusty lovers
Begging for diamonds as if for mana
from the air Wood Awaken