~But I’m in love with the form being molten,
and now I focus, but will focus keep me from smearing
myself over the landscape and what was in the air I could forget
Reagan meadow the landscape burning from a lens
(water pushing against my thighs)
and if into myself to stretch my center, safe house, resounded ghost,
is this is so boring, I was here - space besides and dead besides
a shooting uterine pain a tight point in myself is something else
and how expanding how I talk to my mom for the fourth time today
and there’s being you or which you will I be
and I fear it happening and fear it not happening,
and then I feel stuck, and there’s the one embryo not happening,
to convulse my nerves and then I feel stuck.
 
~Dear Tony, I’m again drunk off the sight of your body, with white fire
not thinking that I’ll melt but want to, a tight point in myself –
that else convulsing - looking for blue friendliness.
And yet my body fundraising somewhere down there doesn’t make me feel
more than a nutrient-feeder, really, hummingbird feeder
with the tubing grieved and colorful and grief shame.
But after all, but then there’s being you well I never thought it would be
the cuff of the endless plunge or which you I will be but after all,
I’ve paid to please myself soap cold and singing, frozen cars
as a lost man in the structures of living who’d rather be dead
as the meadow and the desert jail, Dear Shepherd and Chowchilla.
 
~Dear Pastoral, I thought away monologue, but I couldn’t
but safe passage, but I could make shapes with sand 
Alyssa Aries, mutagenic place, this intense needless feeding,
bacteria makes me live again. Let me say that I see your face
and hear it in mine, swooping up and down the register
a dream that milks the under-living chain.
My breasts, incontinence, I replenish the water in the flowers,
gel smeared on my ankle, Oakland becomes Oakland a year later,
snipped hospital bracelets. And then if we never get there
I would want to die, under the purple glow of the Tupac hologram performing -
under dark November’s weight and a whole burst of art.
Dear Distance: the things, the possible illnesses in my body,
the life-defining germs - to plant myself in you lightly and at speed.
And though I fear I’ll make something awful, can’t think,
can’t do the devouring minutes, avid like cells, and bursting,
with an absolute smooth sparkling winter.
 
~Now follow the money,
peaceful and deep. I don’t write the most violent place
but a place where violence and a quiet hush converge:
sleep well, sleep well, sleep well, floating in a room
that’s both a gem and a hydra. Being up with no infant
but up with a flutter or sharp pelvic push,
I say that good night is late. I’ll roll out the trash,
I want to read that Bernadette Mayer “babies of these guys” poem again –
how many times have I read “The Morning of the Poem,”
I dreamed we had sex (or is it fucked?) all night but then
there was a tarry substance, like a black ooze, coming down my legs
or and then another dream where we had sex (“fucked”
doesn’t sound like me) and then I bled and bled,
but I could tell you calmly, like someone else’s rumor:
I was killing myself so lustfully with birth.
~All my friends could enter here. To write
the prisons and cities and punch holes in them.
I wandered out of a cloud rubbing the sides of my burrow –
with shadows behind me, ice cubes crackling behind me
but they can’t be ice cubes, try to resist the urge
to turn and look: the joke scared itself and winked out.
I sent myself streaming over the crest of fear,
I spend so much cash on walls and mental despair,
it became less about what the prison is and more -
what? The hunt. The lush quiet. Dear Pastoral,
posh glass, capsized Purell bottle, my love
of Tony’s eyes, so clear and deep, my much-loved vice:
when I’m happy under this salt crust,
and expanding too, I move my lust over your body in stages,
the calves kick up their heels, I find caterpillars and bees under “spring,”
while ‘sunny and happy’ was in “supergraphics.”
The lens is missing, though it keeps returning.
The crime wave gone, but the prisons replenish
with perpetual drive. And the dream of a new lens
on a day where fog blooms and re-blooms, all day it overflows
it finally clears for one hour before sunset, Tony’s frustrated,
I forget how to spell B-O-O-K and am mixed together
with my own helplessness. Is there an extraction,
a dilation, a distillation of all these things?
I lick my finger, it has oil, it’s interesting,
I want to close this loop. Then it’s a lens.
This clotted time is doing death, whisper licks doldrums,
although the life form is the form from which the poem departs least,
then I want to shop, to seduce and save myself as a sensualist again.
I want to look at objects, to tap at them with my fingers. Playing doctor,
security whirs, though dead. She lives and works but not in her hometown.
 
~Drink of this sand, this shepherd’s milk
drink of an unearthly voice that made me bleed  
from too much listening.
Then, game over. Then, our foreheads pressed together
a red mist drifts over the planet. And then I sucked
the visionary milk, going through stages
of learning to enjoy: curb, bite, lens, and braid.
You should climb into yourself, the things we need
to see to know what we’re doing are hidden,
but I’m at no distance, corrupt and loving being,
OK, breathing, breathing life! The pain or pleasure burn
between neglected and sanitized, Amerie’s One Thing.
High blood pressure, blood volume, too much blood.
What if I eat juice or chocolate, farm facts,
splotches of plum on the pavement, Jared says
we need to find an inadequate response. I know the things I care about
because I can’t stand to even read about them; looking for a way to fight about
the things I can’t stand to read about. The most beautiful woman there is:
the pregnant man. Give me your cheek to touch to help me sleep.
I like to call a dog a lamb and see his legs splay
when I pick him up; like to compare him to my working methods:
the hyperbolic bouncing in his action. Cool, vacuous, ironic, agitated –
could the pain I feel continuing in these registers
be a cash register of emotion? Or if the cord from my eyes
to your body is the way to care about this unbearable manna,
I spit a batch of green dye through the tendril inside me,
it hits the drain five feet below to say I want a link to everyone.
The Furies’ eyes bleed and keep them from knowing
where they’re targeting, which sounds like power –
it just points and shoots. Rat bites, high rise rat bites,
the cloud eyebrow, the cracked pavement.
I live in other people’s space and walking helps me see this.
Was it the law I was talking to? It told me I’m allowed to walk
because of courtesy. It pushed my sentence to the side, 
my country manners. Prison, your lights on the night sky.
They saw everything, out on the street; I kept having to push them away.

~I thought I couldn’t become pregnant since I was really a man.
Not that I’m different because of it until blinking a frozen GPS voice commands me through honey.
One side looks at the other and doesn’t know what question to ask.
Reading an article about EVOO, hold the piece of fish softly, don’t bruise it
I’m only irresponsible because of my own sentences, walking through this structure built by many hands.
How my hand became a mind and my mind became a hand slopping through the water in Bolinas.
Marjorie at work has to keep re-recording her voicemail because her voice sounds like a phone sex line,
don’t tell me what or who I am – or do, do tell me. Though I’m in love with the bramble,
feel the seam on the back of my neck, the shepherds open their mouths, a blister kills the perfume.
Meadow Evans helps me with constipation and re-birthing,
I am dead, but as if death were not life,
watching the monitor and the sunrise, and without newbies I want to have it with me always.
Another burst of fear then cauterized like a boil
into sadness, along the whole length of my nerves.
My bleeding cervix, uterus, or placenta, my love of Tony’s eyes,
I am alive but the calm of dead routine and oh, how I need it
my marble quarry in the hot tub, on my long lead.

~I missed Selma James, I missed Alice Notley, I missed Sylvia Federici, I missed “Capital for Anti-
Capitalists,”
Zoe says “FOMO” (fear of missing out), it’s quiet and Tony is typing out a text.
You’re still looking for your book, I’m still looking for my book,
Zoe’s bolero jacket’s gorgeous wingspan, I remember the world wave that rolls over me
when I’m living in my hands and feet, the empty spots in my surface
as slots for a July fragrance I’m waiting for, it needles me eyeless, I have no greatness-granting love.
How safely to thaw meat in the fridge, the Big Sur rock was hot and sweaty from my grip. If I’ll learn
about entanglement and make a virtue of what anyway I have to do,
or kill myself temporarily in temporary spires of defiance, at least muddier.
Me being called a pregnant woman and how many other awkward lives. 
Standing awkward around and wandering awkward around the house like a footbridge between myself,
staring at the sun I feel how confident Sasha’s voice is, feel a wool smelling clean,
(it was beige and whipped like icing) – run my shoe along your back to realize painful things about my 
distance
and the vines of normal drones and canisters planted at the height of trellises,
the foaming spring trees, cupped hands, forehead up,
the friendship I knew, pasted with living bandages,
I wanted to key the foamy car and the flowers leading up just out of reach.
Me on the street being called a pregnant woman
I started to re-read The Letters of Mina Harker, but when it got to the pregnancy part I had to stop:
a thin blade of grass wheedling into a heart through ion channels.
In the depths of my phone, I guess, I lost that article about thinking of unmanned killing drones as humans,
I just remembered the man in the Wiley M. Manuel Courthouse who said
“I’m wondering why it would take nine months to try me, I’ve been in custody for the past nine months”
then the bailiffs led him back behind a screen, only when we can say everything at once.
Tony looks at me with those clear eyes that can’t be just a form without meaning – or so this lambent
jelly tells herself, as in her guts her cells divide –
I place his hand on me and keep it there forever, even now.
Friendship I know to thaw, “I am happy” changes, like a sparkling net,
like splashing around in shallow justice, like an evacuation of bowels,
that idea to mean rushing or relief. Where the express train leaps in from loose space
once to see the rippling wide ocean, once to see the pipeline,
will my body start to well a love and care if I can’t feel it? Democracy, praise Reagan:
my withering meager anger, my incapacity, welled up but couldn’t harm the rhythmic sun. 
 
 
 
 
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