dicursive werewolf sometimes being loved when you expected hate is just as unsettling. every night when i'm coming home from some too late distraction, i see the same house with it's front door wide open, the entrance looming darker than the dark. who has left? should i enter? must i? tomorrow morning will be another happening. babies will contract hiv from their mother's breast milk in a village hamlet near dirty water somewhere, a stripper will turn 40. i'll drink cancer from the sun. the day will end with orange peels in a plastic bag discarded at the feet of the passenger's side of my car, moisture sweltering from them, seeking sky or skin, visiting a new manger for another sacred birth. people will have to be what i expect of them, unless they can be different in some way i can touch, some primary atomic sense, something i can't fake. a touch a kiss can be like consoling a mourner by saying, i know how you feel, but it is everything and the only thing you can or should do. and god i love you girl, and what does that mean i don't love? in your kiss if i strain, there is everything i think i'd find in a spin around a globe that is a toy to america, you're an amateur bodhisattva and so am i. we hold on because we think we're saving each other, because we think we're saving each other, we destroy ourselves. 031212 what's it to you? who go blather from