Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Desiring Machine

I'd like to hand you something radiant
and vast as that landscape without worries
but that's just a silly reverie on the subway.
We could dance so hard that the crazy neighbor
lady downstairs comes up and suffers tearfully
with her bulging eyes and condescending manner.
She's a photographer, my neighbor. I need
all the glory I can fit into my canvas tote.
My teeth are really not secure in my head:
one needs money, another is just fucked.
Morning is all spangled with ledgers and reality.
Numbers float around my eyebrows. When I look
in the mirror I have a numeric glaze. I need
a honeycomb hideout where I can eat and play.
The distance between things is growing with
that itchy adjustment of the universe expanding
making it difficult to communicate simple needs
to other human beings lost in their own needs too.
A desiring machine under a blanket would be nice for an hour
and then I would just go to work like nothing happened.
I don't want to upset you, I'm just this guy in Brooklyn
making the sign of the cross with a cup of coffee in the air.
I'm all holy and shit in my soft blue sweatshirt - watch me now.


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