and that woman ran red and we run red and gone
that light and one second the moment
that could have meant never who happened to be there
and that place to be cut from a car what we know is what kills and that
woman who killed you now tell me what lesson to learn

and which way goes as in how do we leave this place and
who leaves without knowing the stabbing and gone
is a nest of what’s left in our hollowed out chests and
neversaids loved never it’s never enough what page
can make up for what’s said twenty two years too late

and leave as we leave our bodies for sky and
when your mother hugged me i held breath as she
whispered she’d pretend it was you to pretend
of because real is the hardest escape

when was becomes the way we talk about how
she passes through tenses through language our language
of grief where we contain her and the writer believing
in the breath of language and building barriers around
those who live cradled in its caves

we believe that we should see joy that beauty belongs
in this place in spite of and there is a right way to remember
the light in lieu of the clouds that swallowed the day and
the becoming we are bent on design a better way to navigate
and reshape the space where you left us

and if ever there is ending as ending a poem we would know
close as our eyelids lifted and carried away in the holding
of breath and our bodies pretending you here

rivers
unraveling

like spools
like bones
tossed
and tied
back

her thickskin
home

(credit/inspiration: frankie voeltz)

an exquisite manifesto

common states constituting them new-
reduce itself to antagonisms, whatever form,
one fact

vanish notes:
radical babbling
rupture, a summer of random
smoldering choices, the battle
revolutionary the mode
bringing into cultivation-
wastelands

your reproach is just what we intend

to act as machine wrangling us asunder

the (w)hole of this shall have associations of coming catastrophe

succumb to the hateful upstart

remain possible

even in the domain of old cries rally the alms-bag,
the banner now antiquated

cut up root branch and upbraid
beet root sugar
potato spirits
barter truth and wool

to be a capitalist is to
keep writing thrown back

let us now trade lemon for
pale blue and keep on until we are tired

by freedom is meant,
under the present conditions-
a jukebox repairman

private property is permission
to come crazy, buckle and broke

“the ideal side of HER”
(HERE COMES UTOPIA…)
The proletariat alone (the one who just owns a body)
are therefore not revolutionary
but conservative

The proletarians cannot become “masters”
except by abolishing previous modes of appropriation

unwanted some even addresses sensational few
why available place what come with just
healthy white hard to expensive

so the world-turn like madonna
idea their families they’re saving but toll
through intimate globalization

finally in the find a view that pulls
grafts new from around
the world tackle inhabit connects

the countries importing them poor
of color removed rather ultimately are
they unseat that encompasses reproductive