&. Id. &

--------------------------------------------------

i.

re-mixed morning, flowing filled of threshold. one is still hungry, evoking ends between wake & Id,

and memory. I connect the night - moment by sleeting black moment, at times when the public rights of day overwhelm my body's need.

to be the warmth of /other/ produced only from the instant— a pure perception

strengthening ideas of self in plots of the mind and it lies asleep, transmitting thoughts thematically, calling taxi cabs, and

transparent within itself. So many personas gently fall, failing to feel the night, each wave of relatedness at mourning a death,

without words in which one conceives oneself to emote, walking in a private non-space where no amount of object-subject

denies the soft, speechless center. blacked street, the threshold transcends ordinary categories in the presence of a replicant. even

when one is tossing, visions, alone, briefings stretching out, adequate behaviors blurring my own edges formed from objects of night I can no longer prophesy

so common is this life as it accretes across these pages. even though one loses color in obscenity, consciousness entangles my self in the idea of this endless sea,

disappearing onto acid-free paper. identity requires sensing many sensing the defects of these mid-range and splitting desire to produce a frayed

tattered accounting of me. remapping moments on an inexpressible roadmap do the experiencing of many splintered selves.

these instantiate the constant movement of my feebled plots. still, within finite self and moment, no gesture can ever be familiar enough,

and the body is once more poised to claim one's private rights. &. I still hunger for that soft touch.

----------------------

"Why I  write?

           To ascribe to a moment; to know I can

          inscribe an order, shape its glow.

Why I write?

           If I didn't, I would dance."

----------------------

ii.

harmony of painted adjectives knows this particular type of any given sound degenerating into the first light desire's rush: an need escaping into her embrace

harmonic stresses. a strong force of melodic continuation allows my soft core of reason a frictionless way into the resolution of her. one transparency of a moment's this intrinsic meaning

of the future held together with spit and glue. there's still something natural left over, a digestible and unfinished in this syntax, the incompleteness of elation toward something.

an urgent image's rhythmic and regular cadence— its geography, its fluid hysteria, oblivion over the final dischords, the earlier parts

having been resolved, pleasing unsuspecting ears in a joyless oblivion of the first full measures could have been written as the fullness

of wired fragments. the final chords exert the pressure of remembered words influencing my future with no-nothingness. music's torn fragments,

occur in the everyday dancing audience, pouring smoke over a grid of circuitry. the arrival of pure synth can be a closer unity in another. sky

reflected in mudpuddles, a lapsed yet invigorated wordlessness sounds a believable resting place within a norm of expectation. one foiled sequence

of the opening motif entangling a gap in the audience so they may imagine escaping into the previous consciousness of a soldered melody.

I hear the final chords as an everyday chatter, contagious building blocks exhibiting different degrees of angled closure. it is through such gaps

in structure those my intrinsic meanings and expectations process the scarlet sky from below in slipping into this quickness

iii.

my memory of boston spreads from each cloaken desire so this, a story and confusion faint of knowledge. it is used exclusively for the tendency to read like particles of this ocean washing over me, giving in to all these reckless dark desires. one compares many forms from this darkness and oceans depths,

would not be likely to balance. I hardly ever, see a passing of natural motion. the parallels and succession of varieties and manifestations reads like a struggle secretly lost in the haze of this city, and giving in, why would I, why would I, self destruct this perfect loneliness. lovely bodies in a story

sleep as cotton grey lifts above boston, warranted by versimilage. i'm convinced of my physical conditions with strict geological sense. a many - bodied black ink spreads from one another. their cells are ready

and swift as they land, aware how charged the eye, how polished shapes and perfect numb narcisism, barely invisible and shrill, withhold storied children's fables. there is with reason very little identity beneath every part of this draft,

parts of new phrases all the same relative position at once loose in the world. the world oftenest gives rise to the ductile and wavers, withholding nothing. architectural powers of jetsam/flotsam,

and barren islands consume their glacial efforts at separating into layers. what is a broken condition if there is not a piece of storm. the wastes, moreover, do not like to be checked

by a repeating place. one doesn't know wastes if one is likely to strive to light, not be checked by and in the window, sing at premeditated distances from the climax of evidence.

again there is with the dodging earth a repeating place, an individual whisper, wasted children of the city, it dooms them just because an accidental self calls the many forms

one doesn't remember, funereal snow. i don't remember spreads from one another. the room, the elapsed time, no wonder all the climate is with the structure, the head a distance

of sleep, and photographed wind like a broken condition dissolved by a bird into separate enslavements. this is a repeating place, on which they make all their feet when

landing. there, different distances within a lagging dream watch edible plants rank and bend the wilderness of their own form. possessed play becomes neutral within a steady nocturnal sentence ripe

for good standing with the forms one must be checked by. even if one is continually changing slowly in the dark, ripe for intermigration in the same position relative to the blue

view brimming voice, the forms one hardly ever sees throw off their inhabitants. potent activity lost in form remembers as they walk down the street, spreads from one function to a web of sleep and opens the wastes. because

a piece of simplicity acts/supercededs, as to one function, to the open ocean,

would not be likely to confound one another passing on wet asphalt. the shifting process

cuts its purpose, scouts tomorrow's fable measured by fine gradations as they head home from the bar.