sometimes i can only write in the language you speak.

and i become aware of the half of everything that i have that belongs to you, too, somehow.
my photographs and music and even my opinions gang up on me,
how can anybody get a breath in here?
and i can't see for all the vast expanse charging the horizon...

if we can't do it, it doesn't exist.
there is a word i can't use, that i lost for misusing.
how long until my tongue is new?
my skin, all of it?

maybe then.



i made cakes tonight, carrot ones. i used a sponge to clean the kitchen floor. i roasted a whole chicken with beets and turnips and onion and fennel. i laughed with my mouth open. i helped a friend. i drank sweet tea in the mosque and birds landed all around. and i can only have had these moments alone. and i want you to be here, in my skin, incubus, me. ride my body like a spaceship, away, forever, and i will float outside, nowhere, and sleepless.


rain came down soft today. the sky was brighter for its greyness. the silk ribbon came and blew me away.
all the boiling water from the spigot scalding my hands. new tube of toothpaste. a melon seed stuck to the wall. lavender colored rubber band of ideal thickness. the same tube of glue i have had since austria, when i told my mother i was in love with you, more than four years ago. pencil that has ira's name on it. green tiles in the garden. the funny looking bartender next door. yellow and red pills.

my back curls closer to the center of everything. cool air raises the hair on my neck. i feel every drop of fluid in my body. everything echoes under here. i'm really not much but salt and water. float home to me, i'm everywhere. i am a home, i am always flooding, i am always drowning, i am always silting, bloating, aching, arching, kicking, blowing
i am not much more than salt and water, i am not much less than an ocean