Eventing it, I see many fine things that are not true.
& with that I like it as a site for convergence. Fear
that "it" all, like when a button is pressed, would start filling
the room with movements & sounds. Living it. Kinging
it that I might drag it out. Yoked tears flow both
for it & for this unhappy IKEA shelf. Preparing it. This liver I will
fain fasten, devouring it. According it. Rosy-fingering it.
What succeeds where the poet fails. I don’t have a monopoly
on it. I lift my hair, and there it is, the last servicio.
Dragging it. Mentioning it. Fanning it with a thick moustache,
“I’m just – I can’t do it, I’m sorry, I’d like to, but I
can’t it’s not up to me.” I give it the best years of my life.
& all I get is this lousy T-shirt. Daily nostrum.
Cunning it. Biopoliticing it. Cutting it. Squeezing it. Being it.
O my like, O my like, I'm too hurt to be clear concise
& fair. When it believes to be free, I light a stinky bean & go home.