… and built again, the walls rebuilt, reframed as a house of a brutal hush, the silence of the held breath and the hand across the mouth … a house silenced, not quiet.

these are the sounds
some



It means I thought I was one thing
Turns out I was another
I was two mirrors
Reflecting a third
Described by a fourth
Seen by none




 56. "All these fucking cocks and cunts," she said. "These fucking assholes. I wish they'd just go the fuck away." "Well, I guess those are the three major food groups. So where do you want to shop instead? Jupiter? Most places are still closed or just doing delivery." "Can't we just go away? (and fuck) I just want to go the fuck away." I waited; as I did an email came in. It seemed more symptoms had been added to the list of fuckery. Now apparently it had recoded to such an extent it was cloaking itself, essentially, as human anxiety itself, or humans. Which meant, all in all, it was now a holy war, once again, between the versions of God it would inspire. And yet we still couldn't go out to have a huevos rancheros brunch on Sunset. And I cried. I looked at the bag of new clothes we'd bought the week quarantine began. We'd probably end up burning them for either warmth, cooking or some offering to the God that was being coded behind our backyard's firepit.
F
or no, not even our backs … right in front of our faces - it was very clear now the masks we were wearing were our device screens and not the ones hooked around our ears. They, it was very clear - our medical masks - were at this point theater props, costume props, all of us cast now in one of those awful activist theater events … Boal or that shit, that ineffective and ultimately oppressive art that puts a bare foot or a flipflop or a TOMS shoe on a face, rather than a boot. Immersive theater, that fucking nadir of culture, that unachieved apex of mediocrity … probably the cause of all this, or at least part of the code gone into it. You fucked with the fourth wall and this is what it got you, idiots:  the wall just moves behind you, assholes. It doesn't go away. Happy now? Her sobbing was stopped. She touched my elbow. "Isn't there that wine store on Echo Park we can order from? I just need something aside from these edibles. I'm just so miserable." I believed her. Her tattoo was darker from wiping tears. The thought of how'd she'll do when we have to grow our own food passed through me. Before I let myself answer I began searching Caviar for the store. I await your return.*From memory Inevitably....let's hope. AlL z HEIM er's  and/though the real romantic reunion (RRR) is always in Death, The Whole Truth and not … ehhhhh … believing it's not Butt/er, once you show for that, who the hell knows. [No Traveller Returns] The road trip. Antidote to the echo chambers,to the voices of reasons & The Bat.
to eat the second half of the delivered burrito, or not, while a man on the telephone screen speaks to science, macromolecular crystallography and such; scintillators at the beamline (they met on tinder).

& the Man said C'mon , play with me ... and the hole. (de plus, Dix Steele, writer, murderer, loverman, professional waster of the day). and washed his hands     this could be any day that's wasted  ...  cue: Sound the cowbell, and Let it Shine, it's 7pm. When the world rips a hole in the piñata of the king, and the candy rains down at the feet of the naked chief. it was measured by the quarter-ounce at the place in the mall across from the imaginarium. earlier, i'd watched it bagged and bound from the threshold of my happy little door on the side. happier filipino men were putting out a big pig on display a few storefronts down the white walkway. they left a trail of hot juice and before they mopped it up i thought of my dead dog in a polluted lake swimming after tennis balls.
   it could be any any any any day and  I’m made happy. (except the grass-fed beef is too fatty).

 Did she want to play with the hole today? "i have been made to feel with no ill will at all by those worried (not you!!) that somehow i am doing quarantine wrong," X says, in her last email. Back to the dream, in which, as far as I can't see we are going back? The redhead in the stairwell sucks her cigarette hard, with an air that says — I'm erotic. I'm the one. Your Daddy loves, your Daddy loves, your Daddy, loves. He. Pulled my hair, pulled my hair, pulled — my hair. Did I— did I tell you about the time — he-
You're the saliva — Bitch, the hole I'd want to burn. 
As if nothing happened in this world. Nothing, as in, it's not happening to me. Kill this stupid dream. It's like—since he can't stand up for me, I'll do it myself? That's not it. It's that split second — that moment I'm reminded there's no witness. That moment — between the moment she can't escape the truth, and I remember she's going to lie about it. 

Come out of my hole do I want to come out of it whole  or stay staring at the green leaves for the moment staring following the threads of a lost dream in the wires of too soon hooking up. I am dead this is death this is paradise this is death? I am dead in paradise. wake to your greeness sleep to your dust scratching at the brown bags some living thing. you know its's living by the sound of scratching a sound dreams of living things in a box of brown bags. to food, to feed to go on dying in a brown bag.

                   Do we really have to die now? she pondered. Or was it all pointing deeper into this empire of the senses — annihilated, exacerbated and resurrected into the uncharted ecstasy she'd fallen into (the hole?) at times, or moments, fleeting — or ensnared in unforeseeable futures. This array of emotion could not be captured. Her psyche was off-leash now — a wanderer. And so it wandered, coaxed into structure occasionally — but never tamed. On the phone that morning (her job now), a friend shares that 'since it all started,' her libido produces wild, phantasmagorical {her word} dreams; she is writing erotica, she says, which reminds this writer of a sacredly moist and sublime masturbation while reading last night (mit book, yes). Like grapefruit, she tastes, in case you were wondering.  Hard as she tried, how could any of this be explained? Really.
                                                                                                                

 in the music of wonders and miracles you made a moment of peace with your death .... for a beat. 
for a breath ....
and
now while you’re watching I’m imagining I’m being seen and then i do see and seeing wasn't it, it was more about being fleeced by my own eyes like a sheep in a laundromat washing itself until it runs out of change
I open my crisis maw and am fed from the stream of that hanging hole. 
the light of fiction glittering and glimmering          *a light switch
winking and smiling
amused the little girls
holding hands [stealth] and crossing the street 
telling secrets to each other through blue masks half hanging onto their small ears
cold on the last day of march
while you’re watching washing I’m imagining I’m being seen  I’m warm and alert in the circuitry of truth, the rocket-stage of knowledge tumbling elegantly away, replaced by the softer postscript of little bits of my cerebellum leaking from the back of my head, which i only knew the name for because somebody reminded my mother i hadn't turned in the assignment
like jesus  below.
Sleep is swift, crisp, 
very dark, 
ends with dreams of sex 
and negotiations with power, as one 
dream or separate. 

pinned to the wall of culture like a butterfly with eyes for wings. I crave the daytime fugue into fantasy and masturbation but I check myself brusquely. I won't do it. Not today. 
I could smoke 20 cigarettes. Drink back bottles of effervescent laager, til it burped magically through my sinuses. Twist reefers, toke on the front porch. Removal from circulation.
Man, that sounds good, she thought, like old times.

 X olden

Just got fired from Albertson's.
The names of them … their handprint is still visible on my face, or ass, and crushed sacrum or throat – or inside me – the broken hyoid bone, permanently deformed , as I expect is mine, on them, in them – [they] rise and fall, wavelets of desire and regret, letters and sounds, an alphabetic odometer telling the distance crossed to now. Although there never was , nor could be , nor will ever be  any pure Now ... 
Sexually confiscated, that’s what I’ll say now, to describe the event that sprung me far ahead of my peers, and then, just as suddenly, set me a decade behind them.
Because they’d call it a crime, just to avoid what happened. even though there was no crime , only Loneliness 
 broken-ness
homeless-ness
loveless-ness
lostness 
Loneliness 
and a lurid absence of an ability to direct or regulate impulse 
and the innate desire to sense existence 
.
there was no money
no money 
no mouth
cut me / into the script. / 'i was born when i met H er ®, / I lived a few weeks when s/he loved me / ( there is non rapport 0 , / i died when sXhe left me' / be U ti ful lies make the story, / coz y'all know, / EYE only live in / (y)our absence 0 

money where your mouth was, I stir starlight in the pot in the grid-dark; across the southland hills the train whistles gallop, no one can say for sure what they’re carrying now. No one can say for sure what anyone’s carrying now; each of us, wrapped tight in our burkas, hidden in plain sight as untouchables. yesterday I’m pretty sure I died, helping someone who’d collapsed on line at rite aid. As I leaned down they reached up and pulled my mask off, to talk to me. They needed to see my mouth to talk to me. I understand that. Mouth to mouth, that’s how speech works. Not mouth to ear, but mouth to mouth. Maybe I didn’t die yesterday. I’ll know soon. I do hope this Crowning is a birth of a new world, of cracked-screen darkness and a return to the space between things, to unsurveilled gaps between bodies, between lives. Crowning, the new world, like how many romances or horror works or myths, the baby born in the mother’s death, the transfer of kingdoms of time and breath, of birth into a memory that has no face, only the sound of its feeling having lived in it, but never seen its mouth, its eyes, or its object of love – and so – loveless, the baby has no name, until a random scrap is pinned to its shit-slick ass by the wind. a headline, a grocery coupon, a receipt becomes its name. Because it has none. It’s you, as I remember you. It’s the much truer flesh in the shower while you’re watching washing I’m imagining I’m being seen  as I clean what I hope did not kill me yesterday. Cleaning – trying to – my reflex to kneel, to help. Your name, and what it does to me, still.
To the most unsexy Disaster of our times: 

 P'haps the lesson the Left must learn, for the success of its own 'project,' is the something we have all just learned. Pandemic truth. That castration is the truth, and touches the Real. A 'Left' progressive discourse /(smishcourse) with this understanding, a Left 'liberation' that acknowledges the truth of castration, and not salvific redemption. 
~~~~~~~~ This truth is not nihilistic, but rather seeks the causes that keep us from being with what is significant to human being/Desire. These are the pieces to pick up to create a new map that includes rather than excludes the primacy of loss.  //Neither Dystopian OR Utopian/// no topos a'tall (p.s. Winners are the real losers, if u catch my   ~~~~~~    d r i f      t.).  
i c u c'ing me c'ing u c'ing me. u think?

 And while you’re watching I’m imagining I’m being seen so knowledge is never what sticks in me, but the presence – the sound – the names – of truth – rarely escape my notice. 

like the letter F.
My brown paper bag had a tear in it, on the bottom near the right corner, and the dark blue garment inside it was pressing through. 
(an image of terror-like finding self on skid row , on worn shoe leather wondering where to get the change together for a hot dog - needing  cigarette but already tarred up - dusk falling cool blush gloom above the clay parapets)

 I made some adjustments – I may have put another bag inside the bag, and maybe the garment inside that one. At the cafeteria-food court table an executive-presenting woman, in a dark skirt suit, was my desire’s arousal and threat. She was negotiating a hope for me.
The scene as if on a turntable, the eye of a storm made of names and faces whose reality I can only sense in dark and in craving, a craving for loss, a craving traced by it and for it.
No one can tell me who was there.
and , in fact , no one was ever there ...
A tear in the package – a very important paper bag, as if, homeless, my entire remains – hope and possessions – were in it.
This is what is.
only the willingness to refuse the world
            kept me engaged with it
bitter and true and bitter and beautiful even ecstatic 
you do do you know time and death are image edits do or don’t you now, willing to enter[,] my non-existence [is] revealed
            either/or – one of us has to go
                           one of us has to not be
or perhaps it is enough
to know that we are all here 
and, that even so ...
even so..
because 
of the hole
we necessarily and essentially may only remain in some illusion of substantive life through a refusal of "the world" 
This was a deep  and eternal wound in the vessel in the Temple. And since it was deep, its oil gathered together, and the fire did not burn it. Consequently, meal-offerings made in it vibrate [as] anything which has become softened through a liquid [like in the case of deep-frying] appears to vibrate and wiggle.
so out of sheer terror for my life, i offered the person the cup to take a sip ..
they offer themselves, sickness and all
            me, who wants nothing but their sickness, wants
                        more – so I say ‘do not come’
you trying to kill me? I ask
a mouthless emoji, their answer
a petty grievance, I am.

 that there is something not nothing ... play with me... Melodrama 
enacts, across language and emotions, the trajectory of the 'word,'  the signifier, 
                                              as the characters come to assume responsibility for their utterances. 
It is a most LITERAL cinematic gesture [i brush you out of my hair /Ba call/]
 fleshing out of the word through a kind of music to the ears---seductive, terrifying---
                 the shipwreck of desire on the iceberg of truth producing a knowledge we instantly forget. 
some thing 
written on the wind.

1.
*pepper this fucker 
fuck this 
[ my mouth ]..,[ i mean.. .]...
and the virus
Global concerns are the fiction version of my desire.
Out of the mouth of my hands come phrases determined to cause crisis in them; and in them, the crisis then contracted (from the coughing mouth of my hands) will make the no one at the door meet the needs of the moment.
As if humor was the knife I slit their throat with; I’m descended from Kohanim; every time I lay my hands on your head, while you’re watching I’m imagining I’m being seen there’s a good chance I’ll cut your throat after, in devoted offering; the whole world an altar to the majestic Defect.
And the blood pours from their slit into my mouth, becomes my words.
The mouth of my hands, late-x, forming phrases designed to maintain the reality of our never being together. I demand it.
The global concerns, the rallying and the phonebanking, these only the communal fiction of my desire’s real scene.
and the hole.
but they won’t give their mouth
            I’d take the virus with it
                        they won’t give it
they’ll just give the absence of their hand
the absence that creates my body, how it falls apart like rocket segments
[separating like slow silent music] entering no u turn dark

they won’t give their mouth, only its words
            they offer knowledge, no truth, no dark to rest the eyes in
they offer no.
I receive the body of their no, my mirror’s exceedingly rifled joy
            I had nothing to lose, and mysteriously, that this was also taken away
                        here, by the story of the sickness, and the no in their wet
            ugly mouth, my hunger for their wet ugly no
            their boring disappearing ‘typing’ bubble, spittle on their ugly lips[’] no
I’ll take it, no virus of their mouth on mine

but what they’d give is
            the shiny, too clean, full length mirror joining all my pieces in a
body of their no, it says
hey, I don’t look so bad for my age
            it says
why is this all I’m left with?

there is no end and, with no[,] beginning -
as the crow flies
even so ...    dead humans[’] bodies everywhere then
a beautiful draft to rest the wings on
36. 

if you wanted to come you should have never left
            the kiss upon their eyelids
if you wanted to come you should never have gone
            the ear upon their navel
if you wanted to come you can’t have left
            my mouth upon their mouth
if  ,     it[’]s to end    ,   then
                        then, it is to never have been
such beautiful flowers I offer you, collected from the yard on the other side
            of the hill.

bitter

hey
Through the virus[-]emptied streets the icecream truck rolls through
            no faces at windows even anymore
how the words fit, also wounded
            
direct sun, a virus
            the virus, a virus
            their no, my body’s guarantee

to die a horrible death
            drowning on land, in a bed, drowning in the sea inside
thrashing, they said
            they die thrashing, come, come over, kiss me, I said, I will
risk it, only for
you and you and you

you mean all they had to do was turn them on their bellies?
like drunks?
or junkies?
(babies)

      The tramp, dressed in clean worn clothes, picks up a holey paper bag, 
a master signifier in a jointed story, 
the contents---a towel, some candy, some paper circulated through the machinery of purchase…
and puts a thrice used bandana masque and some late-x gloves () inside, 
wraps it all in another bandana mask, 
sticks through a fallen branch, from a southern Magnolia,  and walks in the rhythm of a rolling egg,  it over their shoulder.        
         A risk taker touched by homelessness, 
not a metaphor, 
walking D.C.'s deserted streets,
 where a policeman just got tested +. 
'A’ight, it’s real'  when the Lawman "asymptomatically sheds;" 
still, everywhere else, 
nothing but symptoms. 

 A Great Dane,  big, black and white, takes a shit on 1600 PennslYvania Ave NW.  
No one to clean it up, leastmost of all the subject at the end of the chain in an underpaid gig. 
You can smell it. It’s bad.
       Inside is worse. The blind king,   that our interiority itself is founded by 
an unwanted other 
whose face we never see
who bears a message with our name on it
whose contents we never get a chance to read
like you're a father
determination of the self on the surface of a calligraphic curve,  daddy M.I.A.,
&
feeling good, like foolishly proud of my introduction of, presenting, in order of appearance: The Bat.

A small baby accused of being a flower Nazi … I defend him against the other babies and people who don’t defend him, and who (must have) accused him – very intricate conversation, which ends with me kissing him warmly on the face (mouth?)
Cut to me in the park, suddenly realizing the offense of having forgotten my mask, so foolishly happy until then having forgotten this dream come, not true but wrapped up in a nightmare (that's borrowed).

 I saw a lady kissing a little four-year old boy on his mouth. She didn't see me or sense coming up behind her. In the parking lot of Home O' De pot. They were aroused and excited.It took me a long extended moment of inner-silence to process what i had just seen. 

 Like wolves kissing and gnashing white fangs, and saying if he ever needs me to get in touch or touch [sic] or talk to – and I remember hesitating trying to remember the correct name – Peter?
Then I have a continued intricate conversation – more like a monologue – with the remaining baby – telling him – there’s a glass divider between us sometimes, like the guard rail of a moving sidewalk or a zoo – that being different – I’m not sure what difference I’m talking about, whose – the Nazi baby? – is not a bad thing, but like – having bad eyes and being an artist – I tell the baby now my eyes are bad that I can’t see close, I can’t see far – and so sometimes I draw without being able to see what the fuck I’m doing – and then I put my glasses on, and I continue from there – but I have a third place I can write from – “it’s like in sports, when someone has a handicap they’re given points” – it’s not a
F
bad thing, it’s a gift’ – while I’m speaking small birds (baby birds? sparrows or other like-colored birds) wander in front of me, and go under the glass partition (not flush to the ground) so they are on either side of the wall. Is there an adult – another – present?
since ...for a few minutes, or a few seconds , or for a breath ,a micro moment... or maybe longer maybe really for a few minutes you are god or you remembered you are god for a few minutes .. you remembered sometimes for months and years that you are god .. like me...since i am god .. because i am always god and that god is inseparable from all consciousness all things all sounds and textures and alignments... that god is no god that there is no god  but god and NO ONE ELSE IS HERE NO ONE there is NO ONE and NO THING and the hole. .and Allah is its messenger and there is nothing ... 
things , which evaporate ... when I shake in lonely fear ... and re-appear ... when I cannot speak ...  
A party before that, a house party.

when you used to call it 'dancing' 
          the unreturnable pure loin of (sexual) knowledge hooked up with the truth of the eye. 
because this is time itself
it is the only "dance"
and it cannot be       without consort, save the daughter, her hole filled up full with the treasury of the giant piñata, left empty, outside, like a potato sack frayed under the pomp and circumstance; the Queen-daughter, seat of the w hole feminine, can see. She is the very compass of compassion that nods in the direction of yes to everything that is not good for everyone else---the thought thought to the tramp themself, loud enough to be heard. Outside, all around, ghosts from the dream speech echo the prophet’s breath. there is no hole but hole and 'hola' is its messenger
     Tramp sits on the ground, and their arse opens to the infinite origin, theirs, through the earth---a straw in molten depths---sipped through the perineum of truth discoursed in space. Mmmmm. What is. Mmmmm. Again. 
anatomically
un-holdable.
so ...
the pickles didn't turn out.

i was holding a cold soda 

mostly numb mostly nauseous  
and praying
in no specific language  iijjalnling Smasch gborf naball igbin.

sitting at a light in the people-deserted city and thinking ‘all you could hear were jackhammers and powertools – which still went on, but there were no other sounds to answer these.’
except for birds and insects and weather and fundament calling through time and the illustrations in "children's" books 
Once upon a time I feel sad bc within the democracies of the world, where freedom of speech is supposed as axiomatic, one sunny day we cannot discuss or look at the consequences of the reality we create. especially when your eyes have gone bad .. or you forget to remember to see , or , if you close your eyes, and remain literal ....Then there was a knock on the door, and the housekeeper opened it, and look:  there stood a very tall being with its head and face covered - only its eyes were visible, and it wore contacts which were made to imitate cat eyes - they were very obviously contacts and not real irises - which lessened the threat, still real in its surprise, but also now more like trick-or-treat, like when the owners would take their (now dead) children on the neighborhood walk and the housekeeper would stay in and hand storebought candy to (now dead) children in storebought costumes while whatever guardian was with them, stood surveilling, bored. This trick-or-treat aspect of the cat eyes now made it a definite threat, since 'fun' was certainly a way to disarm and then bumrush. The housekeeper had walked carnival many times. So the housekeeper said Yes? And this very tall masked person with fake cat eyes said 'the free world is not only one of the most surveilled worlds, we are one of the most censored.' This brought the housekeeper's eyes to the mouth, moving the mask that covered it. 'It is just here in the free world, the apparatus is seemingly not external, not as apparent, but nevertheless it is social, woven into the neighborhood fabric. The gag order on the truthful position of you and I, the speaking subject ...' The housekeeper took the pamphlet the very tall being was offering from their blue-gloved hand and at almost the same time quickly shut the door, almost on the very tall being's arm. The housekeeper leaned their back against the door and slid down to a squat, listening for when the very tall being would leave … they could feel them at the door, behind them, standing there, also listening … The housekeeper's squat spread their tunic hem, exposing their inner thighs and crotch to the air. A nice little thing, cool on their exposure. Finally there seemed to be the sound of steps moving away - although it could have been an animal hopping across the gravel drive … the housekeeper hoped the owners would never come back. They slid down out of the squat and sat, legs straight out, back against the door, not opening nor even looking at the pamphlet - and began to think on the permissible contexts of murder ""s of BLACK MEN IN PRISONS.""
for instance 
how it has become a platform to celebrate ""ELON MUSK and the 1PCT."" 
and simultaneously remains definitively morally transgressive ( ? )  
and yet ""(and fucking STILL)""
we cheer and fully support ""(¡Hola!)""
the murder of a life in utero, ""or the murder of a """woman's""" destiny?"" oh, oh god, the housekeeper thought, oh, no, oh, there it goes again, the littlewittle puppet show planted in their brain when they were taking a shower, the game-show immortal's immaculate baby's dreamsorrow with no beginning and with no end, just a King's fool's peepshow, the whole world performing for that eye at the keyhole, never just to enjoy itself but always needing to be seen enjoying, and then a jock doc of it shot on iPhones pretending to be based on the life of the mind, but since it was made in USA, in all its old glory and in its old grunting bed, the only real enjoyment was in the sheets they'd leave behind that the housekeeper would have to clean, sheets stained with semen and urine and puke and blood and whatever other fluids and reeking beer-soaked tobacco in wet ashtrays and at the bottom of bottles, the room echoing cheer, cheer, the old band's all here, that's always the only enjoyment they seemed to have, the one they left behind to be found, not seen, found, the happiness they left behind in their trash and stains and smells … they knew it was for them, that they, they the housekeeper, were more important - secretly so, which made it so - more important than the peephole King they officially were showing off their enjoyment to … the immaculate baby's dreamsorrow was the truth of enjoyment being an eviction itself … from home and from love … from the love of home … enjoyment - of their kind - was always to declare their status<--> untouchable, and prove to the eye at the hole that they were worthy of staying in the room. Keeping it. But the very tall masked being at the door with the eyes of a fake cat and the blue gloved hands had come to evict the evictors. Maybe that's what it's turning into, the housekeeper thought - the pamphlet still unopened and now fallen from their hands to rest on the carpet beside them - maybe now its evict-ory, maybe now evict-ory is ours, and immediately lost the thread of their thought - who's 'us'? and suddenly was certain the very tall being was still standing outside the door, waiting - and would not leave - it was clear some confrontation was inevitable. This is the price for taking possession of the house now; of my seizing it while the owners (now dead) were away. This is the price, or for the murder which is condoned according to ... 
according to... denial
according to . .. the numbers
in accordance with ... the abdication of our rights and liberties
&
A bunch of DING DONGS on the golf course from hell.
I WILL SILENCE MY OWN VOICE SO TO BE HEARD.
(OH YES, YOU KNOW I WILL. I DO I DO I DO I DO I DO BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.)

Behind the door the housekeeper heard the very tall masked being sing:

Ballgag me ballgag me ballgag me true
Ballgag me ballgag me ballgag me do
I speak through my nose to say what's true new
My mouth's for stuffing, it ain't for you

 The very tall masked being slid another page under the door. It began:
now that you've been traveling between four sets of teeth 
There was no dental clinic logo or insignia anywhere. 
They read on:
If you do speak from a position of the truthful, you are crucified. I think that says it all. Therein lies the lesson of Jesus the free, the world has taken from the sacrifice made in the name of truth (certainly it was not the lesson of love/agape that was taken either). The craven lesson taken by humanity from his sacrifice seems to have been: "don't speak what is not always"      The korban, the offering, a substitution for the life of the one bringing it.  The person bringing the burnt offering (man or woman) is the one who must slaughter and flay it.
The laying of the hand on the head prior to slitting the throat – how fraught an intimacy in that world where this gesture was prelude to killing. [the sacred relationship of the hunter with the hunted,/love double/ lawman and criminal /coin of the law/ recto verso / colonial mythology/master slave dialectic/the patriarchal signifier/the letter kills  ]    "already ventriloquized from the Other, for that other speech, from the side of the true, projects negatively into the field of our paradise to come, and we need the illusion of paradise more than we really need an actually better future."
Thus, anyone who dares while you’re watching washing I’m imagining I’m being seen and I'm imagining I see you so to speak from the position of truth, must be sacrificed in punishment. That is what the dominant religion/spirituality of the free world offers. (and so forth and so on)
But we nevertheless ought to sacrifice, and offer truth, at the level of a discourse that takes into account the responsibility of pushing back on the prevailing destructive forces of power laying out the catastrophic motifs we're living.
Still, an iPhone is the best dildo.
We must at least be able to discuss among ourselves, painful as it may be ... that i do not want to wash and i do not want to be seen 
I just want her kiss of death [ eye'll die if i don't kiss her. i close my eyes in fantasy]
but we decide to wait
I’ll take whatever’s in her breath [Four score and 7 years ago]
It’s I just want the bait

            at water’s edge the wind
            blows sunset in our mouths
a hundred trillion grains of sand
for each our unsaid vows
            we don’t walk hand in hand
            we don’t kiss or touch
            we don’t speak or at least      
                        not much
            we don’t gaze into
each. others’. eyes.
all this distance puts at distance
all our usual lies

but I just want her kiss of death [I:hole]
still she decides to wait
From her mouth warm and wet
I’m hungry for my fate

our skin’s all burned from the bell
of the no one here. who
doesn’t know the kiss of death
is what began the ocean’s swell. to
where our eyes
behind dark glass see the world
refine
refine and sand and oil and wash
its tributes and our crime

here, six feet over
                        just gives me a chance
                        to pretend love has come
                        just gives me a chance
                        to forget repeat what I’ve done
                        just gives me a chance
                        to call a name aloud
                        just gives me a chance
                        to crown my maker proud

            here, six feet over
            I’ll name a stone for you
            here, six feet over
            it’s so easy to be true, what the consequences are of not changing, so more solutions and ideas are available to successfully take back our lives and livelihoods. And livelimasks.

if nothing else I hope we learn to bow 

 If nothing else, it was painfully obvious if nothing else, some felt they had cleared the air
In other words, a loss of appetite
the oxygen mask
 hearts opened that were already broken
if no one else
 she'd hand the man a flower
another bagel
through the glass
a face shield
in case you didn't know him
hand the man the everything hole under the glass, in case you do

O, she did
And the man was un-statistically well
(*And her words inexplicably lost
And she could not remember them
So left a space for them
to return
which they did not)

 *And the folks in Paris were bare-faced and laughing
And the people gathered in her dream for no reason
And she cheated
And received her next shopping list
and finally colored her hair
while balding men with fun loving teeth
Clapped

Not for nothing but she is still waiting to hear if the man lives or dies
 If nothing else he did not wish for the ventilator tube
If no one else she shopped again for the lady
and spoke to him at the distance 
And prayed

I'm not sure how to tell you

There's no Campari tomatoes
or 'good pears'
at the West Side Market today
Although I did find 'brown mushrooms'
and Raffetto's marinara
'in the prepared food section'
for a widow.
  


Awareness of the fact that we no longer want to deal with other humans develops within a personal practice, true, however, its effects in the social are made tangible through discourse, and not the discourse/smishcourse of the mass media, or of dominant power, but of ordinary folk aligning with the power of clarity about what is the hole.
And, the letter Q.

You still with me? (if only she could eat... taste...anything...)

And with clarity one can see that there are consequences, consequences about which we ought to be able to speak so that we don't have to literally go there--- to those consequences--- and live it. However, the earth will give us that opportunity too---if we refuse to speak or listen for such speech.

There's endless remains … meaning I not you are left. Like under cypresses in downs.

[Like Parisians without masks]

Like looking from the outside in
as if an answer came from the dying
inside
for a moment
always too late. And hey, lived happily ever after

18.
willed chose the condition of lucid godbody 
radiant godbody consciousness living free 
i remembered marley B. when he became catatonic ...
and i wondered ...just this evening... 
whether it was when plasticity had finally reached it's threshold ...
the body and psyche finally in a place where there was no more grapple and stretch 
i would never while you’re watching I’m imagining I’m being seen kill anyone at the moment
it would probably not bode well for me on a character reference 
especially since i want to adopt a dog soon
what i think you really mean when you hear that 
is 
that you are devastated and angry and so sad 
sadder than the whole world ..
and that you have bad circulation ... probably . 

 8. 
no one will ever see you 
and you will never be truly seen
.... so..  it might be ok now.. in this epiphany ... to finally unfold (and open!) your legs 
back against the door
you understand you can not even see yourself and you can not see anyone or anything 
because there is nothing and no one 
there is nothing to wash there is nothing clean or cleaner or clean or unclean 
but 
death

 15.
one of these things is not like the other
So pepper this fucker
tool of the master
fuck this . 
tool of the master
fuck thistle 
tool of the master
fuck this tool of the master  in half and wholly 
absolutely a fuck .
a fuckbomb tool of the master got grooving in the gears got metal in the ears
fuck head fuck face never'd build a house'd eat your ass so SUCKfuckSUCKfucker fucktard.
go fuck yourself the fucking fuck fucking fucker. this is not the kind of thing you can mask, I'll never believe it even though it's true.
just do it. 
stupid muthafuckker .
wholly fully thoroughly fuck tool of the master yourself.
and washed his hands
lets dance
the fucking virus 
in all glorious glory 
i love you mother nature
i love you im sorry
 forgive me 
Dont worry
i forgive you 
Why Do you?
Leave in a hurry?
I gotta!
Get Going!
But we were just floating

 and then what ?

A beyond love and hate, an aisle, a – view, or no view … a lack of view comes into view … a hate beyond, a love beyond, a hate beyond hate, a love beyond love, a quadratics of intercourse undulant ventricular suckmouth shoveitin inmeinmeinme, going, the scrap of email lost to virus code, go, getitinme, I see her mailbox, flag up, waiting, nowstickitinmefrombehind, it’s the mountain stream she spoke so well about drowning in, cool and sunny, honor, wisdom and the voice sun through current onto rock, the bridge fell under the weight of the snow because the glaciers in the antarctic broke off and like ejaculate inmeinmeinme flowed up the vein inside the world and came and came out and bit the pillars of the bridge to bits
data,
not incel but inmonk, rubbing it out to the archives of desire
the archives of desire,
don’t make that a title, you shouldn’t have contacted me, the end of the world isn’t an excuse, it happens too often, please just put it inme, inme, I just want you inme, or at least tell
me you
were 

 there

break the name into its pillars, the four pillars (one an exact replica of another, so it’s three not four, actually), but the mirror is a pillar of the bridge of the world, the name of the world, inmeinmeinme, the name of the world that ended, inmeinmeinme, putitinme, all that came, before, come, again, but this time, not like last, time this time, the aisle, the window the wall this time in, aisle of love beyond love, hate beyond hate, between themselves, inmeinmeinme, just putitinmenow, I want you insideme, or at least tell
me you
were 

 there

let's dance
but we have to get sharper,
smarter
to calculate the movements
that's how we'll figure it out
how to count the squares on the floor
and divide them by the bottles 
divvy up the bodies

 and divvy is a dance 
divvy is a dance
                                                     
hi !   >  hey

As the baby naps, and you and I lived happy ever after type. A small pile of handwritten yellow legal sheets remains on my desk to be transcribed into computer Word file. On the floor are the completed ones – dropped carelessly. Yellow handwritten sheets.
wow wow wow wow wow At the risk of sounding insane, horrible, let me confess that I have no desire for this to end. I'm not done with confinement, I realized (told myself), getting out of bed today. No, not done at all. Impossible to go back; unwilling to press forward. I will remain, here, I thought, I just won't tell anyone.  This is my account of driving alone across the country in 2009 in my new-old Volkswagen van (YES, PLEASE, I want to bond). Last breaths and the yes/no about it. The desperately needed pause, the now awareness of consequences and the unsaid, unseen, undone by the acceleration that was. I see my life passed by and the life that's gone missing. Breaking before now it's broken. Further evidence of my weakness, my abdications, my pieces spreading in a space closing in — what they call reopened. The whoosh of cars almost soothes me. the smoke of the burning library in the rear view mirror in a high black cumulus pillar I could see for what seemed a hundred miles. The orange glow under, against the smoke, like the tower of some city to come. I just wanted to be buried in bodies, and I could not find my way. Buried in living bodies, buried under them, ravished by them, ground down by them, have them breathe for me, have them sleep for me, bury me, bury me, a way to … but … 
When I successfully arrive in Montreal I promise myself I will record what I’ve gone through on the road alone in the creaking, leaking old vehicle. And yet I find I cannot. That I don't even know what I went through, what I've gone through. And never have.
Two piles. Split like a deck of cards. 
Scrawled by my 40 year-old hand. Ten years ago. 
I’m at the rest stop in Battle Creek, Michigan. Between 1 and 2 in the morning. 
The excitement of the day was taking an exit off Interstate 80  after four days on that highway. A milestone. I’m on I-94 headed north by east towards Detroit. But there’s no point pushing any further. I can’t make it all the way to Canada. Dey-roit is still an hour or two away but I sense it. I don’t want to sleep in the van close to a city. 
Rest Stop.
Moss and trees. Wet grass and briars grow over dead fallen ash and hemlock. Forgotten fences. The glisten of dew and a chorus of crickets. 
Earlier in the day I crossed the Mississippi at Davenport, Iowa. Midday sun and optimism I whooped aloud and pushed myself up high in the driver’s seat to crane around and get a good look at the crick from the bridge. It’s significant I think. It must be. The great river. One day I’ll understand. For the decade since every time I get a crick in my neck I go back to that same moment:  ass off the seat, taking in the whole panorama. The great river.
Today. It’s humid here. Rust and moss seem to grow on every surface. 
Three nights before I took my sleep in the vanagon’s upper-rack, out behind a Chevron station in Mesquite AZ. It was so dry. The daytime heat was the danger pursuing me in the old van. 
I’m not there or here. I’m partly in Montreal – safely in the future and in command of myself. In another place a better place. A place I’ve never been. I’m not in Los Angeles. I’ve turned my back. I wasn’t where I belonged. Then the library caught fire.
A few spots over from me in the dark Michigan rest area is another van. It’s just the two of us. Old chevy. Hand-painted black – with a brush. He also parked near the rest area bathroom complex.  He has piles of newspaper and food wrappers crammed into the driver’s compartment. Something not right obviously. But still. The black Chevy van is what gives the picture its sinister hue. He’s a loner, asleep in there. 
America is a thin veneer on nature. Civilization highly diluted. Brushed sparingly.  Underneath it is indifferent in nature. Consumer purchases. Choices. The costs of freedom. The inheirritance of the interstate 7-Eleven.
What it is … I hope for. What it is … I drive. And it occurs to me they may have become friends, the two of them, behind my back, like the men I danced for when I was 12/#Songsinthekeyoflife, aka, I prefer, it's best when — you don't, can't, can never understand [moi]. It's the Courier set off my suspicion. There's always someone typing behind me.
An old movie I watched as a kid. Black and white 1950s – nuclear war and a family moving across the country to start over somewhere.  So am I. Across deserts and avoiding other people. Armed response to the crisis. I sat alone awash in the radio-active glow of the set. Pushed up wide-awake like on that bridge in Davenport - there on the living room couch in 1979 – my feet tucked under me in pajamas wide-eyed. And I’m seeing the crisis and disaster. The family has a travel trailer attached to their chromed-out deluxe sedan. Some greaser guys approach walking up on them with smarmy smiles and pompadours. They think they’ve got the upper-hand and they’re asking what’s in the trailer. Dad tries to ease them off in a non-confrontational way but they’ve very bold, and the danger they pose becomes quickly apparent. Suddenly a rifle barrel appears out of a trailer window. And the son fires a rifle out the window of the trailer at the greasers. He doesn’t hit them. But I’m coldly entranced by the danger they face, the greasers and the family, both, just the thing the danger itself that I am falling in love with you/obsessed with this road trip from the start and have an erection that I don't understand. Later this same erection would surprise me on sidewalks, in rages I had that would seem sprung from nowhere, in the first disoriented seconds waking up on the couch to tv static and the smell of fungus that would vanish soon as it appeared. It's the messenger set it off.
Far from the California and fast white sedans against gold hills. Forgettable real estate and parking lot community. Flower beds, Leaf blowers. Scents of the ocean. Michigan is so quiet even near the interstate the passing of an occasional roaring runaway diesel and marker lights, off towards another early morning, mid western loading dock. I take the large mag-light from behind the driver’s seat of the VW, and walk around to the back of my vehicle. Crouching down behind the back bumper - I'm not sure whose - I look for fresh drips and shine the beam of light across the bottom of the engine. To see if a seal has blown. It’s no worse than it was that morning in Iowa. I close my eyes as I push myself back up. I’m so tired. I look forward to sleeping in a bed in a house. But I won’t be myself like I am on the road.

 poison oak — no, man-made. 
poison sumac 
poison ivy  itchy,  but not terminal... not a death sentence... not usually ~ sometimes/ yes.
so i'll drink it instead
for warmth and a rash
Or
Refrigerate
{at least 2 days before serving}.
Place the radish slices in the jar and set aside.
boil and simmer until sugar dissolves

 anyone really sleeping?


i am not yet able

 Marrakech, questch(favorite plum) — no, 'Kech
                                                   (why we all fell in love with the em dash)
doesn't seem to tell a story.
It's a dreamy place, in a
rougharoundtheedgeskindaway
a perfect assemblage
of all my sensibilities
WE
are skirting each other
//She
is mostly in the dark
lights off 
          the way she likes it
The sensation of floating
of being anchored by visuals
physically, a younger self with all the experience of an older self coloring even the way she appears but her hair is black, not salt&pepper or gray.
                                 {there doesn't seem to be any reason why I have landed here}

 I'm not sure when I stopped communicating. I'm not allowed to be obsessed with this. A good place to admit this apocalyptic world was always near me as part of my desire, a piece of me at core — my collective death wish so-to-speak —burn it all to ashes, the ultimate hope of non-judeo-christian-non-patriarchal-non-nuclearfamily-ing resurrection, 'speak for yourself,' he said, spotlighting my shame. He owns things that are real, believes and trusts in reality where I don't, couldn't, probably never will. The shame of it, the alienation is unspeakable, part of my resistance to being here at all, a place far more real to me. I'm not sure when I stopped communicating. So shameful I can hardly speak of it and that was all well and good until she visited me at the kitchen sink. 'Real,' news of her death the next day. A not alternative fact — pillar of void. My first casualty, the mixed emotions about her chasing every corner. I'll try to shake it off on a bike ride. Did you know it sticks to your hair? I'll take my work to the old neighborhood and if no one kills me I'll enjoy the sunshine — masked and helmeted — everything will be fine.

 ->And we are still having this conversation and the millionaire tells me that 'times are hard for everyone.' At bottom, he simply will not pay for a tarot reading. His girlfriend does it.

 seep so through
                     so fine
fine so seep

 fine.
all good grist.
big deal . 
so shed. 
so i'll shed like always. 
im a speller anyway. 
so i'll spell the way i may. 
...
in the morning i beseech the symphonic to relieve me of the disgust..
the pettiness 
the preoccupation with ...  of ... 
which disgusts me 
more so than being 
i have phantasized each face 
even that i was slapped raw
i don't care anymore
maybe then i would have said i had a handful of friends 
although now more accurately i might say i am in contact with a handful of people 
more so and less so ..   ... in staccato .. and ... intermittently
the tiny blood specks on the paper look like radiographic galaxies 
little myriad universes of their own 
harmless
benign
bold
fresh 
red 
you'll have to pack
soon
i'll tell her today
& . if only it were possible to punctuate and attend through sound files...
today though ... 
the least favorite leg is announcing themselves 
but i am a surface cleaner ...  
by which i mean many things ... 
primarily, 
that i am very good at quickly recognizing and weeding away what is superficial ..... 
as well... 
i am aware of when there is an absence of tenderness 
of attending to 
of tending 
of  attention-ing 
of compassion-ing
and ...
i am tidying , 
organizing  ...  
all of the years ...
i am. 
how 
i have 
become 
a 
permagrudger

and it is painful

e-signature feist. ~ 

feist

 noun
Save Word
\ ˈfīst  \
variants:  or less commonly  \ ˈfīs   \ or fyce \ ˈfīs   \

Definition of feist

chiefly dialectal 

 : a small dog, staring at me standing six feet away, in disbelief — the dog, in case you were wondering, because I am resolved. I see its profound sadness at the distance and I speak to it, to him, the dog, male, let's assume, because it suits me: "I'm sorry, I love you." I blow kisses, like the living, masked emoji I'm becoming, and while the one-sided conversation continues — I think, this would go viral.
*notice the recurrence of pillarYesterday. A 'socially distanced,' walk with two friends, a couple, of friends, and I. I called earlier to see about where, to walk, because 'I won't go near the tents,' I say, on the phone. I want to make it clear, because although I like them — they're classified as 'ditzy.' Yeah — I'm an ass-hole. Kill me. So, we meet at the park entrance on 110 and Lenox. We've agreed to walk west. Maybe to Riverside. That's what I'd like — I've said, because I did it yesterday and it was nice. No hospitals floating around in that park —yet, no plan for graveyards (that we know of) save for the random buried cat; reassuring. A pillar of hope that park, I'll say. I get there early. I've got this new mask on, a gift from my Australian neighbor, different from the blue construction masks I've been using (random find in a drawer). The new mask looks far more efficient, stylish even, with its thick material, tight rubber bands behind my ears and neck, even a black breathing gizmo, reminiscent of the N95's. The metal nose band up top is red, stylish; the thing is so fucking uncomfortable I want to rip it from my face. Different parts of it hurt, but by the time I realize it, well, I think about turning back to fetch one of the old ones, the ones I've been spraying with Fantastik and leaving to dry in my bike helmet — yeah, I've got systems, anyway, I think about “Can I come closer?”
“I suspect we’re both already infected, so yes – I don’t think it matters anymore.”
I sit on the couch.
“What is it you think I did to you?”
“You mean while I spent an entire half year crying and you offered no care?”
“You rejected all my attempts.”
“You still needed to try, after all of them, after each and every time I said no.”
“I will drink your tears now, I’ll drink your spit, your blood.”
“It makes no difference now – we have the one disease now. Before it meant something, when our diagnoses were different. Now – it’s nothing. It’s less than nothing. We’ll have the identical death letter.”
“But I don’t understand what you wanted me to do.”
“You should have known. You should have done it. You should have invented it. You should have broken through.”
“Through. Through what?”
“Through it. Broken through it. To me. To me. But you really didn’t care. Admit it. You didn’t care.”
“I’d like that to be not true. I want to say it:  it’s not true. But you’re right. After a while – I just did not care. After a certain point. At a certain point. All I saw was the same tears from the same eyes and the same cry of the same pain. Over and over and over and over again. It is true. After a while I did no longer care. But I remembered having cared. And I suppose I hoped that to be enough.” turning back but I don't. Something about discomfort feels like I should endure it, feels... à-propos...what? We're still not sure. The male counterpart of the endearing ditzy couple thinks the mask is Prada. An absurd association (told you). We walk. Before that, I do a happy dance, to greet them. The walk is boring. At the same time, it's been so long since I've had any extended conversation in the presence of humans outside of my doorman, the man with the dog at the elevator, an occasional delivery person, the owner of the deli around the corner. The male in the couple wants to go to Morningside Park. I'm okay with that. The homeless/ habitual riffraff on 110 have a different air about them as they pass by. It's striking, terrifying — announces a riot, I think, or at the very least, imminent crimes. 'See all those folks with their little side hustles don't have them anymore, it's gone,' my hysteric red-head friend said to me a few weeks ago. I have to carefully plan my calls to her, the recovery time, and yet, I am watching the conspiracy videos she sends because nothing about this smells right. There's also that favorite client of mine, from Denmark, my north star — I sleep … I sleep and sleep and sleep … deep … what I've been waiting for … all this  … the world inside outside … I sleep and sleep and sleep … hot. He's into the same stuff, which he shares with me on WhatsApp, and it's disconcerting to find that someone on Fox News is actually making sense when they comment on the recent clip from Michael Ryan, the Irish W.H.O executive who asserts that the next step is to go into people's homes and separate family members — by force. And as I poke around that God-forsaken organization, I am left wondering what happened to Peter Salama, who died ( was it suddenly?) at the ripe old age of 51, in January — I'll look into that later. I had visions this year of grass growing tall on the edge of wooden fence posts. My life in the city was debatable. If I could get up north and paint the screen before we switch the storm windows out - and back to the basement. Use up the little can of red enamel.
Hey, why so paranoid? Could be anything— right, like all the people they're claiming died of Covid 19, because, well, once you go into that hospital you've surrendered all your rights, you may even sign a do-not-resuscitate, because, it's only fair — right? Go in with a foot problem and die of Covid19, that's what the conspiracy guy says, in the 2H+34mn video Red-Head and North Star both sent. Wtf to believe at this point — that — is the question. So, we walk, and we talk. They're philosophical, my ditzy friends, so I ask what they have learned about themselves so far, in these weeks of confinement. I find their answers kind of lame, but I smile, under my mask and sunglasses. A woman yells at me while we walk past the tulips. 'MOVE,' she shouts. She could have stood and waited for me to pass, like I did, recently, at the grocery store, where the man said 'thank you,' but it didn't occur to her, the angry lady by the tulips — maybe she owns a condo in my building, I'm rent-stabilized. We part ways, say we will do it again. I'd love to. I mean that. My shitty judgments don't preclude liking or loving even. Back at home, I get a burst of energy from having seen them, IRL! I'm grateful. I use the trick he suggested — instead of gloves, for doorknobs and stuff, he uses a Kleenex and throws it away, to avoid waste. Good idea. I use some dinner napkins from a lunch I hosted a while back and drop my clothes on a chair by the window, where I will leave them for the next 24hrs. It seems I've finally policed my sleep, or did I sleep at all? The beat of the rain was steady, like pins on my window all night. I allow myself to wake up early, it will reset me even if I'm sluggish today. White flowers and glistening black streets. I swear to God birds were chirping the entire night. The sleep-police, in my tiny little confined world — all I am for now.
an exodus
a shrewdness  
a swarm 
a pace 
a culture 
a dissimulation 
a family 
a herd 
a nest 
a murder 
a crash  
a charm 
a stand 
an exaltation 
a glint 
a murmuration 
a family  


the memories

a chattering 
a seige 
a cry 
a mute 

all we
all none
all gone

a silence
a pack

a troubling

a shine

a scold 
a smak 

a plague 
an ascension

a shoal 
a cloud 

clouds
flowers
a raining

a flight

as exodus


I don't k(no)_w) what i'm sayin.' Even if i am saying, or if I am writin  g? Sayin's just a sayin. Inaccurate at best.

I ought to make the phone call. set the record playing the better tune.

Let him know that i have his best metaphysical aspirations  (breaths) at heart, now that he is in his 90s and preparing. Of course, his concern is Hell. WOuld be mine too. Will be. Is. Karma.

I ought to make the call to set things right. Tell him I think it's a sure bet he's making it to "the better place." Wish him well in advance of his journey too. I ought to do that right now. But my gut does wrench. It is hard to hear his voice in my ear for real and maybe for the last time. Not that I am sad for that. I don't like to hear his voice. But, I am sad about death. His loss to me though we have little contact or communication. My mother's partner. A strange man. A secondary non papa papa. Far, far from the fantasy of Lone Wolf and Son.



springtime with digits go white-faced dog go to somewhere 
go to somewhere with flowers 
i who can only love you and nothing more 
i have no pockets with ampersands 
spring face poppy face creature of my deepest heart 
white-faced dog
i would 
i would
i would
until 
i could 
no longer
*
*
*
peel away everything poppy face red bird 
set one bee free 
one black bee
one velvet black fuzzy bee 
go into the tulip tree
*
*
* the memories
i was thinking hard 
i thought..
when the time is happening
that when i am crossing ..
i hope that stephen , matthew and young michael P.will hang around with me ...
i hope things will feel very soft 
and cool
i hope there are trees around us 
in whichever season it may be 
so many many trees 
so many trees 
i hope there is light 

the way it is in a small hill town  a small mountain town when it is early
fields of wildflowers 

~
~
~
~ my mind my bdy my stomach my mind in my stomach which is my body my mind hurts mystomach's body body in a whirlwind of bodies piling if only it was possible to punctuate body if only its sounds would stop hurting 

 [ one day when all of this is an opera ]
[ you know who want to be a sayer ]

Me, the first born male, touched in the head – having my teenage head touched became my greatest fear – my head tum‘a, covered with scales, thick with psoriasis – a solitude I wore like a helmet, like a secret room, like a lens cap – jesus fucking christ I love this I love when you cut me I love being cut into cut in two it's what I've always wanted always always wanted to be cut apart split in pieces made into other sense the sense I am not that I want to have been jesus fucking christ I love when you cut cunt cut me the piñata of the king yes virus me get in and slice me up get in rain in me rain of broken glass you, viralate me and break my meaning apart an erotic armor ultimately of no avail against the touch of them whose touch eventually caused the crisis that led to the world being slit in half and my having to choose one side as my feet were pulled apart – I leaped onto a side as the other drifted away. It was on that side – the other side – that I willingly gave up my 
F
language at the door – checked it – and, the armor of my crown retreated into invisibility – invisible, not healed – turned to a thickness very similar, tactilely, to that of a patch of psoriatic scalp– soft, thick, pliable, pinchable, toothache-pleasurable to molest:  the pages of a notebook, squeezed, between thumb and finger, pressed into while writing, felt in the dark when sought after for the braille instruction of a dream.

If any of [these dead animals] falls on the inside of a clay vessel, then anything inside it becomes unclean, and [the vessel itself] shall be broken.

The pages of the dream notebook – became the covering of my head I wished no one ever to touch.
Wrapped in a veil, a mask, a burka of long lengths of alcohol and opiates, my dream notebook, the number I kept by my bedside for when I need to retrieve my speech – this was the voucher I’d need to present when I returned to the other side of the slit world.

 C'mon , play with me ... and the hole. the rain clears the sun hot and allergies kick in, making where I want to be – outside – unpleasant. I’m out of generic zyrtec. I walk the two round miles to cvs, setting the n95 when I hit the corner of B’dway & Johnson. More dogshit on the sidewalks than usual. It’s one pm and the sun is high and hot and inside the mask my nose runs. Sneezing has already set me halfstunned for the day. A barrier of [clear] restaurant plasticwrap set up at the counter. One clerk’s mask pulled down under her nose. Everyone friendly and speaking louder to be heard without mouths. Orange duct tape marks our six feet intervals. At Whole Foods yesterday it was the sidewalk’s segment-lines people stood at – as if their simply being lines meant they were correct. They were ~ 4 ft apart. 

 Whatever you don't, don't read. "Blueschild Baby or finally". Don't realize who those guys on the street care for, the ones you've seen on the daily show, the guy with long braids is now X free three. Whatever you do, don't. Loverpromise and at the same time dream another for loverpromising because if she'd like to. Aprés-tend she's any kind of hacktivist in her cushy/bougie glove, infested, a family infestation, Hudson Valley castle (with thens) then that's other prerogatives and you're landholder arsenic for judging there because welps can't meet d-cups on the chatterbate and enjoy a glass of swine while prisoners are dying to loverpromise too. ? >Whatever. you do, don't you. ? >Reconsider if the meaning of i.n.t.e.g.r.i.t.y is what you told her it was, or loverpromise yourself >ass first, mouth in the carpet.Whatever you don't disrupt remains.


 Whatever you do, keep it Ho-ho-ho-ley shit, he was kind of making fun of her kind of enraged kind of in love kind of absent.

 just a complete bitch (if i may say so myself). burn in hell or just living in this world should be punishment enough. you're supposed to be compassionate and kind. you're supposed to be supportive, you're supposed to be open, you're supposed to be tolerant, you're supposed to know you don't know, you're supposed to bring wine and/or flowers, you're supposed to understand, you're supposed to hope no one sees it. you know, that thing you wrote. you're supposed to stop wondering why shit keeps disappearing, and you're supposed to be okay with it. all of it, you know? the redhead hates the word — bitch, btw... i'd be crucified, oh wait — i already was. you're supposed to get a stylish mask; you are not supposed to eat of fuck The Bat and you're supposed to be patient. i'm sorry but — where the fuck is everyone going to return their clothes? 
No one's taking returns to the road trip. I keep coming back to it. So fucking sexy and why I don't know. It's almost as if he made this thing... normal — turning back the clock to that trip to nowhere. Or maybe it's the font, and my suspicion, you know, about the two men, in the apartment (behind me).

He/s the age my first abortion would be now. That crossed my mind as I packed up to check out. Not the first time I thought it but I noticed it, again. Now I/m his lover, old enough to be his papamama, devoted enough to have murdered him - once at least. Those truly devoted murder their beloveds twice. … He walks out the motel bathroom, smiles at me. Then the stink hits. Why all my lovers have looked like ventriloquist dummies has been bothering me this trip. Suspecting … lately … the hidden hand in them is the one I/ve been seeking all along - want - the one I fuck when their dummy face is over my shoulder, ear to ear, when I can't get their cock deep enough … when I/m just that, that deep they just can/t reach, no matter how big their dicks … I can/t shove them enough in … like IN would be outside but still in me … the face of the hand in them - that/s what I want in me I/ve been thinking this trip - and when I can see its face - it/s no dummy - it/s a Portuguese sailor/s grim portrait in a gold frame on a smokedark library/s wood wall. An officer. A grim sour man who knew the sea and the courage to leave without knowing where to. That/s the hand in them, my dummy lovers all these years … the hand I/d have wed had I the chance to hold it. The dummies … loved, all of them I loved … but it was the hand in them I wanted … in me. To be the dummy they were? Now this one, the age my first abortion would be … the stink from his insides filling up the room … as old as the stink from my insides was … I open the door … my headlights point right at us, my plate number as familiar to me as my name. Maybe more. The coke can in his hand … condensation measuring its level … he offers me a sip. I shake my head no, "too early." Zip my toiletries up in their pouch. Once the bathroom stink is less I hit on our real coke and snap off a piece of chocolate. Ready to go. I hear the bells on the office door as I slap the key on the counter and see him in the passenger seat, head down, thumbing his phone, obscured by dirty windows and early sun. [S]uddenly I know (and I know knowing doesn/t make it true) he/s my last dummy. The one - this one - born the year of my first abortion is my last. That I/ll get rid of him on the road and begin to find the man in the frame and get his hand in me. Finally. Like him, old now, heading without where to. I/ll leave the dummy somewhere safe, with plenty to survive on until he makes it back home.

there is no hole but hole and 'hola' is its messenger
There is no hola but Holland at one time was its epicenter! this is not the end not the end not the end. Really, game's up people!
A house rebuilding not from scratch, an end that's not utterly opposite what their mending dreams had been, a chip they'd like to implanted grown into their personality and - unrefundable. Temporary conditions portrayed as permanent status. Diminished returns on subaltern psyches. A call to the dis-eased phonebanks - the workers not given COVID leave - why should they be, with a tripling in remote sales since the outbreak? - calls made with the hope of promises of answers to questions about morbidity, i.e., the unknowable, about love, i.e., the untraceable, about the unidentified, i.e., memory's uncertainty, with no GPS and no app for that, with the phone workers, utterly stupid just like you who knows no other, reading about the novel corona pillars described like Athena's temple columns too smooth to writhe against while fucking one another's polarized, obliterated minds in the book of life of that romance novel Einstein's Dreams, or even with the glissandos of A Love Supreme described as the waves of the Lamp of Darkness, the house - it really hadn't changed. It was still made of light and heat and still couldn't be built. 

 Ripple the mask in the vector wind, go off to sleep, and shout

all 

are 
left 
wandering
what's
left

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