ohbismillah

We have our magnifying glass, so we commence to match skin cell for cell and scrape each other's tongues. We hold two strands of DNA to the light and lo! they are the same up to ninety-nine point nine percent. And we two specimens marvel at symmetry from separate jars because science is pure and any difference is significant.

There is a question inside   of me at the bottom of my liver and there it   has sat since last winter. The fool with the eyes in the   back of his head will someday need to see the shape of   what is in front of him. I'm curious to know where   you are and if you ever feel some strange movement in   the pit of your liver.

In the lamplight the coals in her eyes glow a vermillion reminiscent of the red-tile roofs draped like tapestry over the walls of Beijing.  As she blinks, still only semi-awake having lost some pieces of a dream cracked mesmirically open at the touch of his hand, she looks for the sun in the cracks of the ceiling but its light does not seep through them. Her body, despite the jumble of flesh and organs lain across it, groans with a loneliness unique to the people of her country, and the movement this lamentation creates in her breast is sufficient to wake him the architect of this cage in which sunlight cannot shine through

- Confusion has never kept me from anything. If I don’t know what I want, I take it anyway. - Make me a moon with wax paper.  Make the rain out of sugar and color the sky with your crayons. I want to see the world through child-class eyes I want you to make everything soft and accessible just like it used to be. - Shut my eyes and tell me why you left and why you came back. Lull me to sleep in your arms, love me so soft so sweet that I will never wake up and look at your face. - White Magazine Girl is pretty with blue eyes and I am me.  Boring, right? - It is late, too dark, and I cannot sleep. Where is

she is lolling hands bloody napalm-colored eyes too wide, she falters face in the mud: and hands will pick her up, waves of boots from underneath will carry her skyward; in she breathes she breathes in pieces of lead and bursts in airless conflagration; her heart will burn the forest and her hands if you touch them will break you slowly in half she won’t beg you but understand it’s just a habit born of life lived as an explosion making soot from fire never angry enough

When I write I don’t know what it means until many years later. When I paint the colors are beautiful and leak out without provocation wildly but the shape is blurry fogged with indecision lack of will to understand. I am not an artist, it's said I will not let it go it’s lost but when I sing I open my mouth and out come the words