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.