An Agent Will Be With You Shortly. Please Have A Seat

Along a current of confusion, which feels like open humiliation and looks like rage a ship of dreamtexts comes calling.
One mouth enclosed them, like a venus flytrap without lipstick, and wouldn’t even swallow.
Another mouth’s teeth tore into them, breaking their fruitskin, revealing ripe meat.

A question of submission is posed.
There is this question.
Opting out is not a choice.
Only to what, whom.

It Mek

never yet been a flower on the thing
never
just greens. Inedible. Eat lily greens.

All 'these' years he says. Unquenchable violence. Womb of the historical gaze. Is this why he lies? A little capsule of world consuming pain vomit-popped out the mouth in unremarkable salivant passing. It falls a little wet and a little melted-sticky onto the upholstery, where it bonds.

"What a mess," V__ said, wiping our stain with a paper towel. "What a mess. Because what does a husband tell a wife? What are the limits? The rumors of war get louder. And all the years I heard about it never believed it, really. Really. I never believed. Attributed it to some kind of low level something not achieved by them who kept harping about that so-called war. Something something, as they say. And now the rumors thump the ground like pile drivers in a circle around us. And I think they might be, and I think now they always were, my heartbeat. When we first spoke we set fire to the whole hillside, the entire hayfield ... all the corn, the morrel bed boiled like a cauldron as the ivy and pansies and cattails and clover cooked around it and the trunks of the maples turned black with their soot. Cardinals sang over the smoke like over incense. But after all these years now, we go back and the place has been reclaimed and there's no trace of us. All grown again. Two fires now. And us in the city."
"What about what's ours, what we've made, here, together. What about this?"
I put his hand on me.
"I understand. I know. I understand. I love it, us, this and I love you. But I still crave the space we burned open, the fiery space we made. Not its memory. Its action. Why can't I say that?"
"You can say it. Whatever you want you can say. But you don't see it. You don't see it or me. It's just changed its shape. It's still here. But you don't see. You don't see you buried me in there, and let it all grow over me. And now you-"

Written down like it sounded the sentence - the last sentence - reads a couple of ways.

Old greasenasty clock on the kitchen wall in his house of the future. Always. Motherfucking always.

I pulled the sticky capsule up and gave it a lick and put it on his tongue with my fingers. And I closed his mouth and he swallowed it down.
If A axis is this, and B axis is this, the whole thing ignites. That's how architecture is made.

Body Count Contested

We sat next to each other, facing the plant.
"That leaves us alone again," V__ said. "And I can see you're none too happy about that."
He put two fingers on my right shoulder like it was an abdomen he was about to palpate, with his elbow behind my neck.
"How many years I know you?" he says. "The rings on our tree would be a good foot round," he says. Hard to tell if his fingers want to lick me or stick me. I think if I had bowling ball holes right there on my shoulder he'd insert three and throw me at the wall. He'd look me in the eye first.
He goes on: "All these years - the rings on our fingers - and sometimes I sit here when we sit here and am afraid to touch you at all. And it is like first touching a new lover. Before. I see you with the eyesight of grave desire."
"What."
"When hunger is up eyesight is thick with it. Like semen is the medium light passes through, and everything is the surface of desire. And when it happens between us, like now, I see you through these semen-swollen eyes, in this light thickened by my own biological sea. And you - years and years between us - two rings surrounding us - I catch a glimpse of your cleavage, of your ass's curve, of the blood beating in your neck, of the tiniest part of the corner of your eye or mouth, of your thigh, of your shadow, of the movement of the dress that hangs in the doorway swaying after you've passed by it - a glimpse of your most recent absence - and I feel the 10 year old boy I was, squatting on the mound above the field, when below my feet I caught a glimpse of the science teacher's nipple under her collar, inside her bra. Instantly whisper-pinned in the crosshair aim of an eye the size of the wind, tied-down and famished by the mystery hunger I was fed to at birth. My eyes become conduits for the ends of space to greet one another. I'm turned into a tunnel for a darkness to crawl past on paws through. I become afraid to touch you, when I've practically walked inside you."
"True."
"But it's not fear. Time is thickening, which is what I'm seeing through. And the sweetness, the sweetness, the sweetness ... as time

al

most

stops

And I know to touch you
will be to send it roaring again ... And to not touch you will be to always need to."
We sat. He'd watered the plant before we sat. We watched it come alive again, picking its headheavy leaves off the ground with a silent heroic strength. It was about half erect, half raised again. And we could actually watch it rise. Like watching the moon or the sun move. Things that seem should be impossible to see, or shouldn't actually happen, happen. Happening. And kind of halving the set of what should be impossible. So a kind of wearying. Because the other half obviously is much more impossible.
Another leave twitched and rose a little higher. Someone called it a lily once. Another lily leaf rose.
This was a time when the morning was mostly love and the evening was pretty much hate, between us. So the afternoon was always a kind of event. Creative, verbal, cunty, morose, or completely in synch. The emotional poles of morning and night were what our batteries touched. Much energy there, in the middle, as I recall. Der Zwischen. Wanting to tear his throat open with love. And feeling him wanting to kiss & kill me, because I was time keeper, and richer, then.
Across the alley I heard the woman chanting.
It was a bright, bright afternoon; the heat wave had passed.

a fore dawn

A dance the dance of the holy map to the source of the nightheat.
A submission dance, fueled by the fossil-sap of long buried desires, long mulched dream, long relinquished lust. Fueled by the impossible.
The bodies of the dead, our fuel-crisis.
When the past is no longer a source of power, we send a crew of diggers to the sun.

Old Glory Burka

Not hands but dowsing wands, these things that seek the keys.
A blind elbow apush from behind the inside of the breast.
A cul de sac, made of grammar, tied at the top with a found halfmeter of gutter-dirty sisal. A dime size of sky still shows.
How you tried to tell me, difference in heart rates is the same as the orbits of Neptune and Earth.
That I could plant sixteen ears, and never see one bear teeth, while you could swim to the brown clouds of the delta and come back in a white Rolls and a fedora of fur.
And that in the space that distinguishes our hearts very separate beatings, if only because we remember what used to never be, a small aeroplane (an inhaled schwa) flicks across both our screens, at exactly the same breath.

For the arm to pull on the air itself like pulling on a latex glove
And this arm itself to reach through the mind itself and itself speak its words
As if nowhere else could be found a speech that is not cashed electric in debt
To shades of necessity, the fear of calamity, the violence of a lost address
To have the hands of the air grab my skull and part and close the jaws
Saying the air
What is after and before
The saying