Tuesday, March 27, 2012

It’s hard
To think

Out loud
And be

Present to
Whatever, who-

Ever might
Be there,

Here, I
Don’t know.

I just
Doesn’t know.


The Body
Is virtual.

The Body,
You know,

Is not
A known

Thing or
Social construct.

It is,
For sure,

A sentence
Or wilderness.


The precision
Of thought

Is a
Sad illusion,

Is a
Haiku trying

To be
An opera,

Is a
Film trying

To be
An organism.


One has
To try

To do
The impossible.

Or just
Try to

Make out
With all

The palimpsests
One can.


Writing is
The weirdest

Archaeology one
Can do.


Where can
One go?

What is
Our Project?

Are there
Any answers?


It comes
To sex.

To rubbing
Against others,

The frictive
Sometimes fictional

Others one
Can’t help

But want
Or want

To be
Occupied by.


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