Tracers

I sent a letter written by hand.  So much pen ink.  So much pen ink.  I looked up.  The address.  Correct denominations are silly because you would think.  By now everything has one standard and simplification is a good.  Work around to working up the words. In my bed.  The phone continues to go off underneath the pillow and I.  Am starting to see visions of "who" again, but nothing.  Clearly we have been sorry for some time and unable to express.  Trains departing to all points

West means very little when you cannot make.  North or South of it all.  Should probably be in quotations.  If you heard it inside myself.  Is where things start.  To take on shape is a commitment and I am committed, but I am knotted.  If that makes sense you are imaginary and I thank.  You might be a little cookied, if it's possible to think at all.  Times are rough and I keep having this vision where you are dead and I am wearing thin.  Excuses for lingerie, but they keep on

me like body paint.  The hog keeps vomiting fire.  Squeezed in a hand twice its size.  Hilarious to June because she can laugh.  From the nose bleed seats, the ticket makes more sense while other people cheer something radical underneath the seats like a mile long fungus thinking it might stymie scientists by flying beneath our feet is an engine of proportions difficult to grasp.  If not for pen and paper.  Can run short when
they all speak to you at once

is when you know you may be on drugs.  Perhaps onto something is what your psychiatrist continues to say. The monotony broken if a spate of humor was forthcoming to grant an excuse to be a complete.  Personhood is granted by waiting in line.  For brains and a heart, I am not sure I would take her up on a quest like that.  You are bound to run into ghosts.  Who agree with you a lot less.  Smelling twice as bad as I would rather be dead than sing songs to Gods

made by men.  Abstractions can be an excuse in this day and when did I age out of toys.  I've got my eye on some dog collars that would look.  The other way in the dimmer switched hours of whatever.  He waits beside a street lamp.  With disgusting patience.  Going out there or not is a luxuriant choice.  Among however many more will be.  Had the doctor been a typical.  Sex change?  That I eat too much.  Will you help me?  I've had a terrible go of lunch of late.  I promise I will share.

Hatred (titular)

...so hating mankind,
what you're saying,
is a lot like hating chocolate
with a severe sort of passion.
Not everyday, run of the mill, chocolate, either.
What you're saying is that the candy
is, of itself, good.  In the context of the
concept of taste, however, it is a horrible
horrible thing?

No.  Hating mankind is a thing
principled.  It has very conscious limits.

Varying?

You're a towel!

Giant Robot

Subroutines upon subroutines.
All of the witicisms relating
to power are geared toward preventative logic.

What if, some day, you wake up
and you are ten miles high?
What if, some day, you wake up
and your heartbeat is a ten million ton reactor?

Some day your high line
will not be so high and you will forget
what you are.
You will react,
heart melting down while
they all die.

The thing
in and of
will make
no sense
to you.

The program will run,
debug successfully and what have you,
meanwhile.

Turn

Outside the window
the leaves are orange and red and brown.
I can't remember when last they were green.
I can't remember wanting to bring it up,
overnighting your home and couch parking
on something not equipped to fit
five foot anything of person mass, but
the leaves are going and in stages of gone.
I would love to say something to you
about how it is outside that window
without coming
across wrong.
I do not and breakfast
comes instead and forgetfulness comes
on like loose eggs across ceramic and we all scream
a little bit inside.
Turned out
of doors
we go
about the silly bits and it is funny
the way Indian summer can stretch.
The way leaves on the ground still swish
the same way they were first heard
years ago.

Friendship Noddy

I have been looking
at your feet when you come in and I
insist that you take off your shoes and socks.

They change with the tempo of your
everyday things and moods, but you
don't notice.

We slugged our way
through the eighties and the nineties
have been more kind to our ears, in terms of music.

Where you left your backpack is a matter of science,
we don't do math here, as you know.
Talking about everyone

else has been an exercise in a lot of things.
In a lot of ways.  Joy in is
a slant rhyme away from join if you really press.

Your cigarette can go out in my hand or
an ash tray.  Whatever you feel
like sleeping hard is okay.  Because it is.

I hold nothing against anyone,
everything against myself,
no one against their odds.

Something like that.
Could you be happy to be in this scratch of time with
me, nothing to lose, and for once nothing lost?

It is a question I do not put to
many any ones.  When I can help it.
i am glad I came over, is all.

Someone has to sing to the moon and someone will
have to sing into their pillow and I
am all kinds of star skyed.  Love you.

Work Song (riding the bus home)

My balls smell really bad,
'cause I've been sweating
and working time away.

Now when my eyebrows lift
after giving fingers a sniff
and the frown
painted stays

It's only because
the itch wouldn't give,
life being what it is,
I ain't fucking scratched 'em all day.