time

the womb delivery, i remember. we said words like polyphone, rigmarole, kowtow and flatline. among other hisses, and the ethereal invaginations of a living object. we cut a strip of digestible atoms, inflatable balloons, lamp handles, and penny stands. in the side-by-side abstraction of a dead baby, cigarette stains, ashtrays and wind pipes. in the perceptive unfolding of adulthood, of the reconstruction of generosity, in the development of censorship, in the polity and inequity of an ideal government, in the morph of butterfly mysteries, of the blood botanists, the shell industrials, the piquant professional of hospitality, hospice and martyrdom. of desires that weave in steps, bone arrangements, ossified and cold, eccentric in the manifold of peer imagination, concentration, word babbling cosmologies. downing in the rain, a martini -pink and chic, with brown water motifs and spit pantaloons, whirring and stirring, and snaking in semi-humps of circularities and symmetry. to the boy birth, to the unpregnant biologist, did you feel the relief of emptiness? the relief of a silk ball tumbling down your vagina, ripping and tearing in shreds the venules, the arterioles, the capillary meshes of development, of embryology roiling and bubbling in the microcosm of your womb, in the monotone of the developer, cast in a shadow, hidden in time, burrowed in the relativistic misconventions. why should you be born at this moment? is it my time, at ten past noon? at five past six? at twelve past five? why then, which date? the additional -the time of birth on your emblazoned certificate...intriguing. at what time, in the mezzanine of the elusive arbitrariness, are you truly born in to this erotic world? i am obsessed, yes, with the grappling of your erotics. what determines, the time of birth? your conception, at fuck? the rapid slip of the umbilicus? why, what rationale? the time of death, peculiar concepts. at falsity, unanswered. to thank my breaths, biology, and race, a day forward. a year behind. a motion afloat.

verbiage 3

to your cellophane doll house. your brain buffer convolutions, your trickery of white coloration, decoloration, bleaching, profit-ing and domineering, you are the human woodwind. you are the colored aromatic, the all american elitist, the reclining house of diamonds and fur, your giant eyes and podgyness, in brain battles and blood battles of entrapment, of understanding of a game of unusual pleasantries. on my mind, is the theory of smile. hypothesis of humor. a release of sadness, of a garland of orgasms, of pent-up frustration, thoughts of queer, court rulings, babies, coffee and cupcakes. in new york, in my city, erotic at best, nomadic at best, rustic in vogue, i tell my tales. loud and bold. unprofessional, uncut. to be in competition with the polo player and the financier, the liar and the prostitute, this chromatic of cityscape befuddles and stirs the desirability of consequence. the more they race, the more they scream, the more they twirl in jitters of hope, the more they howl and shriek and burn and rage, you rise a step. in leaps and props, in the benevolence of a character bubble, in the stagnation of shadows, in the release of suppressed smiles, in hope to beat and defeat and fall and pick and move. to rise a bend. to lift your self, to re-appropriate. to re-desire. to re-evaluate the spectrum of the continuum, of moving on, of going through, of ceaseless doubts and concerns.

to ask yourself, what to me is the meaning of being human? to perceive and pray, you often say. what makes you human - a special animal? an advanced animal, a sophisticated mammal, an ousting from your neighbor animal. what makes me a part of me? to self-reflect. incapable of love and incapable of shame. the duty dome is a fleeting response. a human dream to oil a change, to mobilize and lubricate, to learn to couple, to learn to be, to learn to learn, to give to who? in cliche wing, in smiles, in soft babbles, in word vomit -my new art. the verbiage of the unnecessary. to the poet in me, self-classified in rhyme. to the nunnery and theists, to the crack beads of exhaustion. all i want to do, is stir in you the communion of self. you understand, you differ, you doubt, but push the flame flaring in the precipice of your calcium heart waves. every new beginning, in paraffin, in doubt, in motion, in lubrication of a power play, in the ladder of the metropolis, in the outreach of a villager, in silence, reflect.