but who|re-takes

Let's consider a text as something like a social experiment, a way to speak to one-self. even to remainder what is self. remand the self to distant shores of command, the surrender of all things yesterday and the walking machine today. characters in poems, including the I persona ought to be read as fiction unless otherwise stated. the old practice of dedications would clear up some of the confusion that surrounds "romantic" interpretations of texts. a text is what, a poem a machine a desire line, fleeing its dead co-ordinates of voice and self "I don't know who I am" , and other such fancies, commas etc. the detail of grammar that lets us slide past self selving body and other. All my blogs are on parole.

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Thing for someone that not only rejected me,
but hardly
saw me breath ___
"He" laughed, __ he being what? being I, being an I,
becoming an I persona, published (read Blogged)
it anyhow,
knowing damn well she him saw breath

but he was too proud [read scared: being scared means his feelings were not strong enough to overcome his fear]
to Hello her:


which means he could not be
more than polite, and that was only when
she stopped, what?
who knows, who gives a hoot?

it's here some
thing he
wrote anyhow

__



But who are are these?

who are these golden ones [this is a terrible line]
your beauty like a distant stage set
to make all[?] the fire works
go off

[and] running down the ages
I see you standing there
the lorries of time reciting their prayer

As night goes by your fading smile
melting into mine
night hovers like hunger



but who are these greater ones
their bodies distant skies

their distant bodies cross the blue skies
disguised curves carving around
my body

desire and the lake
roundness of buttocks thighs
the churning muscle of hip against
unknown pants and you’re walking the street
look up and down against the sky
for the farther sun

who was that walking into that store
her son’s hand swinging by hers
yesterday
the speechless endowed with speech and green onions

leaving at the “wrong” cash
(casbah of desire and consumpt) like her nerves
speaking the “wrong” language
she speaks into
his bi-cultural milieu

surprise of joy and mist soi-distant mister of parabola
and sweater her haunches ring the delight of



never like others her name clambering
round the end of fortune her voice littering the sandbeams of time


and you say, “They don’t say sand-beams, but sun beams”
as if any joyous sailor didn’t know that

already and
already
spinning
by your sorrow and sin


Sin! She shouts! Dharma desire my Lover

He says, what started out as someone
became desire, anyone,
love ties ribbons and rocks
the flood and pale of language ribbons
tricking its rock not pretending
any longer
longer to be the underlined self and
its magic woos’



it goes on like your name
a simile of alphabets
(he said grateful becomes great literal
becoming metaphor)
phonemes ruddering the page clapping
applauding the love that knows its name
clattering the tick-tock of clock
and what's more a memory of wanting
to this body in time
that reaches emptiness
and fortitude

.