All is not final

I thought the eye was the everyman

War death self goes on the poet hero

Stop, let's talk for a while

Get up, let's walk

It is epic, is lists, is too much & past structure

This is the function of the poet through this.

Again we have this catalog

All over well it wasn't unstructured I

Believe in my soul. That he can be here

A wide wash seems prophetic & sees

& is helping you to see

Even with the women. How to articulate American

How to articulate all very & city & farm

& was explicit. This kind of sexuality is through

Structure which is valid. It can be valid & is

All over. Opium eater prostitute president.

Broken love poem

What does when it can

The uninterrupted push of something hungry has agency over a small

gap in the resisting self

What lets in is not weakness or it is

What decides weakness is a justifiable desire. Or a mispelling

Words can be

turned and in fact it is their strength; the most

effective organism is not strongest but

the most adaptive to change. Best, it

may be best to let in all sharp monsters and honey-eyed sharks to your well of despair. What is afraid of being empty may deprive you of space.

It is more necessary to fill it than to be clean. Here, take my guarded tube. You

have awakened a certain

drive like lifting

of oil through buckets

from wells

or the way that saline is shared between

neighboring cells.

It is a departure in the shape and

structure of a return; with you everything old is new again.

We have you to thank

And at this moment life has lived to form a wet and blacksoaked web of hardened oils into a blanket bare and irresponsible. Light falls across a sky made of bridges

and netted heads of my grandfather's daughters and sons get pushed down hard into the shoulders of their coats. Sliding a softened and heat-held, looked at as reborn- web of fur over my bare skin and

despair quickly is sandwiched by the awareness of time; it becomes morning. Those children are despair; have been heat-held, looked at as reborn- and are fitting desperately into new clothing.

I've chopped for them strawberries and taken away their pet needs from them. I've been told to head out their capital struggle through seeing the way that their eyes are filtering through the present pain. I've been told to write often; told to give and take away, resting on nothing but moving wheels over a heat-held, looked at as blank avenue.

Who will be their gods when i take theirs away. I've begun to allow the reinvention of their purpose and the threatening disappointment to place my hands

to push downward their netted heads into the shoulders of their coats. Breathing backwards across sun-dappled sidewalks I am the necessity of eternal surprise; the fig which is ripe but the fight is now to take it and destroy.