knot meat sunshine biscuits, danger paddles

kabul commissary and the fertile pacific

suburb fuck, federal laws,

orientalism revisited as kitsch

sharp eyebrows, empty eyes

cellphones, no one worth calling

egg donors and overpopulation

microcosm eyes of the latest infant.

gap shopping bag but a decent heart

imagining more than you want -

his life, her life

in an instant, a notch,

knowing you could, not -

not the actual thing you already have, had have, have had

handicap hieroglyphics, and rail braille

truman's voice reading oppenheimer's science

"next stop embarcadero"

do not lean against the doors
written for archaelogists maybe

find out if you can have babies you never see.

penises sit beneath dockers like fish flopped on their sides

attentive, not overbearing

those are the dockers ads.

all destinations, 2$ rent for the homeless.

the station opens to background scenes.
knot meat the train with its increasing nose. the tunnel moves in your ears,
howling out its shape
it sounds round
nervously filled
you can hear the weight
of the earth chasing its tail.
the tunnel slides across windows
constant wallpapering -
smells like an empty church
not sacred just strange -
and tension
acceptable tension
toilet white lights
the way dentists are evil
and inescapable to children -
a murderer smiling at his trial.
and blue scribbled carpets
the downcast eyes
of passengers
like shameful sex.
not the first time or the last time
you've set alarms
included yourself
in something
where everyone wants to be somewhere else.
knot meat gatorade from a vendor in the station
which your/my mother might
half-heartedly think is poison.
the train bisects water towers
from water towers
houses from houses
history has its atoms in the trains called out stops -
the newspapers
back pages
that no one reads
asks if we're too good at war.
the taste for it
like sunday morning cartoons
when your sibling gives
and lets you watch
your channel unflinched -
our hearts want to bluff and call
but we've created weapons
that outstrip what our heart had in mind.
boring paper anyways.
chem fucked.
something has to be sacred
to profane it,
or can be realized as sacred by your profaning, though not always as expected.
a baby was brought into work today.
train bisects baby world
work world.
hooded in soft pink
and its hands are still small.
and it just cries
not to any particular end,
just a general strategy.
the train goes on
and it sounds like a baby crying -
just following orders,
from small hands
a heart inexhaustable for now,
as hungry as it will ever be,
and so,
as innocent
p2 willoughby 040512
stork daddy i like this one 070626
:) i met Ralph Harris in de post office next to the sweeties !

hee hee
;-) and i got Matilda from Roald Dual, he gave it to me for improvement.

hee hee the Twits !

and he winked at me !
what's it to you?
who go