We should befriend the dead
As they fly back and forth
On the backs of angels
They are defeated
In the wars of intimacy
We should listen to their stories
The dead are better story tellers
We should listen
The dead are us

Beneath the act of seeking
There is a void
Except that each death, dies 
As it escapes the memories 
Of the young
The bourgeoisie are fucking it up 
Hanging out 
On a lost cruise ship
On a lost river
Where the history of the divine panic 
Matches ours

Let us stay involved 
In the decoration and accessorizing 
Of ourselves -- it
Is about spirituality 
And its deafness 
To the disappointments of Utopias
I'm without dreams
Only the theology of multivitamins
And some digital hopefulness

It is sexy to be middle-class
With good bumper to bumper traffic 
Yes, the world is going to be interesting soon
If we become particular about love
Let the car find freedom - death is not around the corner

Failing is an act of love
Oh purity
Words are slices of time
They travel with us
Alone with few bags
After the duty free 
Not enough Vodka
To claim humanity

The city is peppered with armored vehicles
They are the fake Hershey kisses of the world
You can sip tea with their drivers
While dreaming of love 
My body is deformed from usage
I am thinking of not giving up
But - from a distance - there is simple violence
And it is tempting to touch each other inappropriately
Just to pretend that all is fine with the world

walking the same streets
sex isn't an escape
it works for a while
if I stopped thinking of hope
and focused on your naked pictures
as I jerk off amid tanks
and imagine the coffee shop 
turning into an orgy
tonight i can write the saddest lines
sex won't work
we are left to combat the middle class
with mere hands

because pain has no logic except breathing
we walk or cab the last distance from hope
the air doesn't move the window pane
our tea makers worry a lot
they keep us aware of our death drive
scribbles undamage me
I will act as an entrepreneur
and sell you computing devices and baked goods

Poems die
Especially in old buildings
After short struggles against ergonomics

With incomplete electricity I cook breakfast
And we gain one more day because of storytelling

on this regimented pass of tea and oxygen - I'm looking for a trick other than self reflection - things to discuss other than the sexual implications of modern management: he was born, he worked, he was racially interesting, and he died - the story had some exciting moments like spilling tea on cats, different forms of abuse and unemployment, ... - near the end - he died before Frank O'Hara - a certain refrigerator magnet caught his attention.

I thought: "all the power to the soviets" 
and woke up among well meaning Marxists
who stayed up watching old songs about love
I prefer to be lost in Seattle dimness 
turning slowly into a nature poet
writing about leaves changing colors
and ugly highways - I will ride the bus to work
and hide from the passengers - I will 
also hide hope in an okay refrigerator

& navigate

your silhouette pinkness 

christmas to sum up 

navigate again

race

with bareness

tender bareness

and fog

dogs & incomplete lovers

condom-ed 

a ghetto or two 

unfriending the trip

dual permutations

of calculus

& time

All these times we ate, drank, or sipped coffee while hiding from ourselves that the dialectic is turned upside-down and that funerals are also opportunities for networking. Ah, that dance scene, when the villains are conspiring and reciting Baudelaire - well, it never really happened and we are left under the mercy of our friends texting needs. My mood today is betrayal - language is what enables it.

this is for collapse
for the longing machines
as they threaten
please type slowly - 
we have lovers to miss

intimacy has its cruel logic
guided by the white lines on parking lot floors
we are headed toward our sappy police
they are shopping to save civilization 
we are caught pretending our software works
now tea helps - I promise you will escape death

I love the twenty seven grams of you
those that are continuously in pain
but I am down to the last song of songs
the bed covers mask fears
of the ones without mythology 
to back their actions

the path we have to take
i.e. the structure of things
goes through books and semen
as insomnia tears-apart the night
due to lack of courage
i think of you
only half thoughts

Alcohol doesn't go bad
We use it to engage with a dying world
This is to document madness
In the psyche of all matter
The wood the glass and the metals
This is to burn the useless incense
Of our bodies
And turn them into subservient entities
We call the night an option for resurrection
Observing few false starts of power

There are the ones who are disabled for the rest of their lives
And there is us
Sitting without evidence on fulfilling highways
It is cold here
Earlier than the cabs