Whatever Is Not An Energy Source, Is

The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

I Have No Connections Here; Only Gusty Collisions, Rootless Seedlings Forced Into Bloom, That Collapse. ... I Am The Visiting Poet: A Real Unicorn, A Wind-up Plush Dodo, A Wax Museum Of The Movement. People Want To Push The Buttons And See Me Glow.

I Stayed Under The Moon Too Long.i Am Silvered With Lust.dreams Flick Like Minnows Through My Eyes.my Voice Is Trees Tossing In The Wind.i Loose Myself Like A Flock Of Blackbirdsstorming Into Your Face.my Lightest Touch Leaves Blue Prints,bruises On Your Mind.desire Sandpapers Your Skinso Thin I Read The Veins And Arteriesmaps Of Routes I Will Traveltill I Lodge In Your Spine.the Night Is Our Fur.we Curl Inside It Licking.

I Said, I Like My Life. If Ihave To Give It Back, If Theytake It From Me, Let Me Onlynot Feel I Wasted Any, Let Menot Feel I Forgot To Love Anyonei Meant To Love, That I Forgotto Give What I Held In My Hands,that I Forgot To Do Some Littlepiece Of The Work That Wantedto Come Through.

Like Species, Couples Die Out Or Evolve.