clean break from across the hall, the door opens and faint techno leaks out, reverberant

screams whisper the swish of cars down a wet highway across my hand, periodical clap of the lock, out from face, angering the tone to the lens, down the pipes, bile leaking against asphalt, whos fault the door to the stares rote reason to head bang against the sliver of light, the only thing you try to solitary confinement, then feel the best time of my name displaced to pull outword one silver bullet thru its egregious knot, when none can calm the fugitive uptake, dont throw out the entire landscape with the pebble, one eye pushed in pops the other out, renegade to itself, mire in outer plasma, this underwater dust bed, this martian clawing at grace, eyes closed, to see if my body is open to where is not my body, but a body estranged, not my body in my body, how the muffler of the bus is more my body, my body sweating is how i know the snow is melting, 11 floors up, the ground is a tomato i jump into, the ice slips me,

the wind smiles and lifts me up, the man drops me, the wind takes me to be healed, a wet highway separates me from the water, competing with the crash of the waves, i come back into my body and nothing waited for me, nothing knew i was gone, Im nothing to nothing, peeling is nothing in the condition of compost dormant in every word, night soaked eyes rolling in dross, picking, petting, towing out swaths, bidding taste-buds to torture, like fine wine if fleeting feet ahead of my head atop the world folds over me, tripping over my stance, cant tell how far the fence is, my bearings, my eyes, cant tell how far the siren is from the window where my hand traverses the verdict, justice is love is law is tricking your senses into ordering the escape of distance to the reflection of the wine liquifying the window my body floats in, to fill in the gap between the account and the body, when only the body is a sliver of light your lips pressed against and processed and packaged, trick myself of its distance from my touch, banging on the bars and yelling in protest of a prisoner being beaten,

unifying with all the other prisoners, and when the guard, pumping with rage, comes into your cell, you dont want to fight, the fight, sucked from your body- a knowing only in the fleshthat screaming in the distance, i just wanted it to stop, a lady came into my cell and shook me and i saw the scream coming from me in her eyes, pacing the cell, perfecting the act of escape, sense the silent whistle inaugurating the dance, the prisoner, tearing off prison clothes in one motion and runs, the guard on his tail trips trying to strike him with the back of his rifle, the prisoner then jumps into the getaway car.

death swerve the bus, on an iced highway swerving, between eyes, the sun, e tending a noodle of light out the window, what means die! what means kill! taking his daughter as spoils, making her drink wine from her fathers skull, the bus driver screaming, were gonna die, were gonna die, the passengers screaming,

were gonna die, hits the side railing of the median, swerving into the front of the car to the left, bending out of the window the noodle wraps around the bus as the bus spins out in the dark of day, she stabs her husband in the throat, shoot the needle off a cactus in the wrinkle of a raison, in front of me i sense the crash of two cars into being, lag, as perpetrator, frame by frame, entered into, slice vision and split the earnings.

when the margin eats there is a falling, yolk to yolk to ash, everything up for grabs, sucking the oil drenched wick, smoke bends around the pages as they turn, being sucked into the hinge, the back pushed to the front of my head, that was the most refreshing page,

the black plate drawing closer to the shadow of what have becomea drop of honey in a vat of shit, the suns rays pulling back the tied into its contention, where in the mire a dropping happens, wiped to the edges, sliding down into the bottom of a puddle along the curb, the tongue laps and laps around and around in the shadow circling the yolk of memory, on my knees, names growing off felled oak, climbing to fuse in the field created by the fall, pulling corners together against the armed forces of in-animation, empty of articulation, e cept to erase the ghosts- dancing to revive their names thru the outgrowth on a felled oak, the cruelty of parenthetic into solitude, you stare when, death rings when you stare, when called to, how can you with a stare bring such color to dried numbers on a page, fear induce in speaking immersion into and from the heart

pounding at the wall, locked in a burning prison, sees their body strangled in ropes from the other side of the cell, at peace, no longer struggling, and floats up to the roof among the old growth.

luxury the future of lu ury is active in the energi"ing of its present by its past which inaugurates a coming trend which cannot be consciously perceived, but we perceive the nostalgia into the

lu ury of the past already tending out of itself toward a future of lu ury. the terminus of lu ury is a potential that enters actively into the constitution of every consumption of lu ury. the end-point of lu ury is a futurity by virtue of contracting the pastness of lu ury, it pulls its contracted past through the crucible of its present, toward itself, the not-yet of lu ury which constitutes itself for its consumer. kanye wests presentation of lu ury can be a creative factor into the staying-power of his brand of lu ury and, by e tension, himself. his presentation of lu ury cannot be reproduced but can be repeated, but always anew. in order for kanye wests lu ury to catch on, he must remobili"e habit to re-become a creative force in the situation of lu ury. to do this, he has to become sensitive to what is coming. the consumptions of consumers dont stop, they come in droves, they remember forward to an unconscious feeling of an end-point of lu ury in the west which makes itself felt as a limit-point of this lu ury through a nostalgia contracted from the lu ury of the past. the intensity of the window ga"ing into a presentation of lu ury can intensify its gravity, envelope the hoards of them, continue through and around them, that they feel the cycle of consumption of lu ury will keep turning.

peopled to the power grid made simple, unjust justifying, precision cut cold glass against the cheek, performative generosity, life-like receptive to complaints, sensitive to stimuli, can emulate certain human emotions,

smooth in otherwise common issues and

at full speed across the curve of vast waters, voicing flesh on the darkest night of its arc the scream of what slips unnoticeable collapses blind, yet re-writes movement of becoming to itself in re# digesting the bridge from anus to mouth, rupturning the edge of the tongues shadow, sliding under the holographic spasm of its utteral flesh, buried in the grave in my skull $s%lips stuttering splits back into $s%putter $s%pit, growing hairs in its pit licked clean, ground rattles the call, skin severed from beads of sweat, the borders of tiles conform around curvature of skull, in a mirrored corner all three sides of my face melt together for profit, blurring of outline is not required to produce the same effect, have to keep remembering to lower my tongue from the roof of my mouth, to unclench my jaw half-asleep catch myself falling in place,

need a weak unified body to prevent overproduction, the only time the poet e periences the outsideblindfolded then transported from one building to another, hunched over, two guards holding onto arms handcuffed, lowering the dying flame to the moth, from mouth and back on the cusp of embodying a collapsing distance to the last breath of the regime, gasping for fire, reaching through the window, latching onto your mouth, inhaling your language and e haling its deformed body into the weakness of a unified body, till come its scream, erupting underneath, reckoning, out for revenge fire on the hills, gelatinous plumes, and left rotting in its own steaming pile