There are moments when the actions and reactions between the speaker and the licker are unclear, like, unclear, like -- is it a dog? It is a dog. This I like. I understand that liking the unclear thing, the beastial nature of an animal who wears sweaters in an intimate fashion on the streets of San Francisco and who can order from a menu meant for it, how comparing a subordinate licking person to a dog is no longer a comparison to subordination. That’s what’s clear. Dogs who lick pussies, be they person or animal, are no longer the worn animals of the street, but sweatered, leashed, plasticated beings.
The bodies of women and the bodies of birds are the same, the way we reach for the body of a man, his beak pecking forward and our open mouths in pornos or in real world, like. Who are we? Are we a body who can be compared to bodies of birds? Are we, who are we? Bodies coughing up birds.
Is it possible that MK and I had the same relationship with the same guy? Is it determined that a poet and a nonpoet’s relationship will ultimately generate the same reaction?
Dear John the Baptist, who has requested your head?
Deer just inland from the trail the other morning.
So suddenly I’m at Point Lobos with my husband, but I lost one earring probably while asking him to take a picture of me -- come closer, not that far away, something that’s a little bit back lit but that I can fix in post-production. He, the husband, mostions for me to look at the way the waves, the big ones, move over the rock below and bury the city of mussels or colonies of things that, by pure existence also exist in the world of Capitalism. Marx isn’t wrong, but perhaps we’re wrong by using Marx’s theories, for some reason they have created synaptic pathways. Chris brings me back and says what’s most cool about the way the waves fall is how it’s a perfect representation of liquid mechanics
I stop at INDIGO because of the position on the page. Because of the color in the sky. Because of GIRLS. There are ways to read and construct poems and this is one way, filling the page and pulling our eyes over, but I stopped at INDIGO because of the position on the page. Because of the color in a magazine. Because of GIRLS.