there are ten hundred thousand more / where this came from.

I’m telling you I don’t know how to tell you how I feel and what; you’re staring at some far-off corner of my mouth

Off in the distance past-times when I sunburned in bamboo I was consumed by you and nothing therefore broken highways

and stop-signs growing askew in my mind, here’s the turn and down a bumpy jungle road passing passed past a row of worn and dusted jumbled mailboxes empty

of what you want from me.

I didn’t know where to stop and then I did and when the grass grows tall maybe possibly whomever I don’t know if I should stop or stay

or maybe cast off along weather- beaten roads into ghost towns and sugar mills.

It’s cold and cold and old this warehouse, dark and sit beside me ripped jeans and want what we shouldn’t want - here and in today nothing shouts just warmth touch and we strong to hide our grin, and yet

the sort of thing you want to say without a safety net: hello,

in daydreams, in dirty bathroom stalls clutching filling large empty dirty rooms alone with whatever cries we have need to share, this is dirty life, this is sweaty life, lost time and uncut grass and you are my baby and my mother and my unborn face and my silent scream —

and there are ten hundred thousand more where this came from.

and you know it could be I thought it was you and I tried to barge inside and maybe it was you but now I wonder was it me and are these bars and were you reaching in for something possibly you saw

a glimpse of starry shapes strung like street-lights along a loop of west-bound trains, flickering and blinking out when I passed by

there is no grammatically correct in here, language broken and perfectly assigned to what we want to say to each other. Comma me, semicolon you ampersand & never ever a full stop not with you.

but it’s craziness like this, uncensored dreams and foolishness, you take me down in great yawning-yawpish gulps and shake your head and smile

lots of shiny teeth, wrinkles folded at the edges of your eyes, this is it, this is why you’re here, unfolded, twisted, wrapped in me (rapt in you) —

ahh, it’s all foreword, word-play foreplay my pen is mightier than this word.

I wonder what you see when you see what you see in me, because I see my damnation when I turn my eyes toward you, and that is all that living is:

a damned walk along a line (white sparkly reflective in the night) we drew ourselves to keep us living here where we know the way and not out there with the snakes but the distant brushfires — you, tell me to set these words ablaze.

I swallowed what I ate and regurgitated songs of Schopenhauer; Rilke resisted your hand too early on these nerves but I wanted it without pause

to yes maybe strange the edge of madness, dally.