who am saturated in narrative, because the bleed

and you, with your rickshaw, on a run

and my unshaven stockings (unmended)

every Tuesday, by the waterfront

a bouquet of roses, floating separately downstream

bound for yoga class, or market

where the oblong vendors, oddly cubicled

sprout their florid obscenity

politics, and we always (pretend to)

ignore them

The avatar for interaction, or love

in a time of (inter-

active) software I (too) am given to

addictions Horse-

less people, of the plane, and

made of paper The string of non-

relations maps the context 'we'

feel out of Fall from sky, as in

the usual: an ordinary Tuesday Now

it's Tuesday, and your ledger book

's been lost You're on an island, made

of rowboats (w/out oars) You

find a number to hold on-

to What is gained

in this? Is

there a surplus?

A cathartic pied stomping

of rats, as in the pestilence

And our dressed all

in whites, as in

the ignorance Or tempered

hope, as upon hope, as

in illogic -- us

in center Name

the instrument, and bathe

the instrument That it

might enter, on

its way (in dutied

cleanliness) a purposed

cleanliness

unloveable

in the well

spring sunken

eyes i

walk to school

unknowable as

is to say alive i

linger on the edge

her corner property

i bark like dog i

read reprisals

of dead actor i

identify the little

shards in moments

you most you and

watch them

catch to

try another

i dunno, man, most

of the time, but some-

times i also

don't know, but think

that i know, it goes

like that (and this) and

more of the same,

with you all

over there

shining your shoes

or whatever, trying on

the YOU know face,

not even

wearing shoes, but

standing

(or sitting) be-

side a very

large pile, and

thinking 'bout

what they'd feel

like on

your feet