bars on my windows, bells on my

-write a list of 500 thoughts you think today, do these make it? consigned, unsold?

the man in the garden apartment has bars on his windows,
and i can see him ironing to the television.
walking the dog, there is this tension that you encounter someone recently met.
the dog either plays soccer or shits.
also that the police will stop you for not having her on leash. and then they discover you don´t have your papers.
but if you take your papers, which you don´t quite have, right now, anyways, you risk loosing your papers, because you are out at night alone walking.
you run into someone every night in passing. they see you you see them.
barrio man slut looks for equivalent. you assume they remember talking to the person whom you were with. did they. the next day. ask for details. about you. you assume they did. you assume your face is relaxed and that they can smell the details. but they smoke. but you aren´t there now.
in the examined life it is necessary to not examine what is presented so much as what is present.
spend at least five minutes every day rythmically flipping the shaving mirror from magnify to accurate on its spindle because it is the only thing your life that remains fluid for free, and it allows to suppose that indeed you are shaped enough like an hourglass running out of time that you will be fine and one day richer if you skip dinner.
pink is gendered. as for salmon.
because i made a hat for her baby in salmon before the baby had its pieces together.
men have lips that are pink too.
in what ways is a thought a question.
i´m a dishwasher artist. really so nice to meet you. i´m a dishwasher engineer.
big plastic buttons on a woman with bleach blond hair and dark skin and three cellphones are worse than fake tits.
(you) exhaust me in your absence and my inability to adress you.
(you) does not signify a specific named thing
(you)exhaust me in your presence and my inability to adress you.
when you see someone eating from the container over the counter in the nude while you are reclining in the bed wishing for a more normal schedule, automatically add 15 pounds, in increments of five for all of the above mentioned ways you have been disillusioned.
the physical parts of you are only responsive to small things. person is not enough.
when i think of eating meat i think of opening the front door on a cold morning in hellish isolation with a lover and finding a dead bird and not wanting move it or touch it because love never wants to get too close to death, not even as close as being stuck in an elevator with a dog and three days of garlic eating and not washing because there has yet to be a day dry enough to hang the towels and the apartment is like steam bath of fungus, and you get used to it
but in the elevator or on the cement there isn´t time get used to it so you look at eachother and that´s it there´s nothing and the romans and knowing that this will be a sunny day and if you were hungry you could eat the bird and get sick like the people in poor places that must eat the dead that wash up.
but there are no places for dead birds not chicken or turkey, least of all on your front porch. i like the word augery. i like how it moves and how it feels in my mouth like an eyeball and that the only eyeballs i have eaten, those of fish, were hard and bitter and not all like i expected an eyeball to taste because i was thinking of what it would be like if i stuck my tongue in your eye, whether it would be buoyant and taut or slimy but i didn´t stick my tongue in your eye because i thought it might give you conjunctivitis and i try to be sensitive about things like that because i am always afflicted with minor discomfort and infections from lovers who try and probe various parts of my body with the wrong parts with no regard whatsover to basic cleanliness and that maybe this is political but i feel grateful that i did more than once end up with my tongue in your nose, with more medical danger to myself than to you i suppose. not the window to the soul that is the eye, but rare and precious and uncomfortable as a rooftop apartment without heat. in movies the couple never wakes up and walks out to argue and finds a dead bird. but in movies they dont wear seatbelts and their legs don´t fall asleep or get constipated in long roadtrips across the country. they never have lint in their asses from corduroy pants. we don´t want anything dead to threatan us. we shower to wash off the invisible bugs that we support like barons and exchange like islands in dubai. i never feel clean if we shower together because....

las pilas

like i said. We trade bugs. Not that i ever feel clean in the shower because when something is wet and the drain is clogged and there´s a little bit of something left from the dish rag there on the tile, it becomes dirty once again for being wet. Would that the tile were white, but instead it´s marked with a forest of colors. Clean is absent. Wet is
what. Vector of disease. Flexibility. Something to be consumed because it fills without identity, with ease. Fabric is a flat solid which has been made to resemble a liquid through a process of miming the physical notion of an interlocking network collapsing. Women, we prefer dressed in the most liquid of fibers, as if there were no line between their own fluidity and that of the cover protecting them from nudity. We want them to dress in something that threatens to evaporate at the right temperature. Young women anyways.
I made a dress once for a boy that was like that, all ocean, or really, because i am not so pure, like the rainbow on top of a puddle after a rainstorm, dyed the silk and cut the dress and it falls off when you pull the knot like a drop of water and it has a few lines like waves to keep me floating.

blue shirt

here is it possible to sit nude as if you were dressed. soaking in warmth and illusion. escape may be one of the most common mistakes made by foreign speakers of english. always, we saw him and we tried to escape the bar. absinthe. speed hash wine drawing. walking. passing. emotional fantasy transfigured into a relaxation so complete as to signify loss of control, and a fall. no light. slipping out of light. with a crash. coming to thinking first you are burning, ten seconds of horrified sobriety and gratitude for not wearing makeup, because if you were it would surely by now have fallen into tracks. and then the realization that. giving. take leave. have taken leave of ones outlines for existense a volume that is all color. all sense. all sound withrawn from structure. light like amber. light like open. this is now, it kills me.


skip rearrange recline one second of looking from above. and confusion over whether the pain is from having seen your self there without . in cold . the sound subsides scale resumes. in falling, you of course have realized some state somewhat blissful rubbing away the sharpness of the line between waking and sleeping, snatching a thought from sleep to put it back in the world of the waking (because this is really what it is we resent most about sleep: we are unaware of any contiguity of this time, we cannot construct a narrative of our dream lives, things are seen, and what surfaces to be remembered is completely without context to attach it to in its own language, and for this it remains cypher and uncountable. but i skipped this, see, there was moment of having arrived to the point of sleep and yet a limb through an open door into something else clinging to a rope with toes. this is how the prow of a ship feels.