You Always Keep Repeating.

You are alone and you are easy.

You see the history of your life and lineage in your mitochondrial genes, cells, confirming what we suspected: bottleneck, enlargement, plague,vulcanologists from everywhere, studying the site, thinking aren't you a cute disease.


The music is so loud you blink every time there is a drum. Yes, best we heirloom quietly, for we are powerful weak. Overcoat, spread your wings.


Almost a legend, knots laced with passed-over glass, daddies in pastel suits next to the only surviving witness from a life best spent in big years, dreaming of sliding on your belly.
Tough night, wet ink, loose seams. There is plenty of time for nothing and you should volunteer for it. Time allotted is never enough.


Roll over and tell me you're a sofa, backboned by an old quilt, tied to the notion of design, of pattern, of words so staccato they bang like rats atop the roofs of government embassies, that is, without regard for what those below will try to assume you are: harmless and preoccupied, known through your gestures to be true.

The ropey cuisine of another planet awaits you tonight, something freeze-dried and wet just for you, and molded into whatever you want: lids and caps, some beans or rice, coelacanth, but the remains will leave their fossils on your plate.

Memory is like this,patterns already laid out across neurons and blisters,each occasion which follows will fit into that shape,even sans arms or eyelashes,rendered sharp-tongued with bad desire.