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

Tonight I received part of imperialism as a gift. Tonight I thought of the clouds as pure and felt some closeness to you. Tonight we will have our annual meeting about hope and it will culminate into a hand job. Tonight I will water the plants. Hope and roses and hand jobs are marvelous beings.

like a moon's death

privilege
determines
loneliness 

crying is its 
own epistemology

only the will 
and its trees
and its words