What's in Your Hand?

"I hope you're not masturbating."
­R. Lapauvre


Glass you could fall through 14 exotic stories flailing of
being, end on your back in the shards, a carnival of
expression, nothing to express. What's in your hand?
Little Wing, the young Indian homosexual poet's sister,
maybe junkie as well. How 'bout that Mato Nanji? All
that was left was a little hat and a little hand and a little
wang. Ground is what happens, as established, through
acceleration, gravity the great reminder. My life gone
up through lives of others, another pungency enters the
world, spool of spore and so forth, a little repository of
melodies to remind you of who you thought you were
where and when you were the notes themselves like
brass through store windows, a squirrel making his nut,
marrow of light wound to wings, which make us dizzy.

what a Saturday lost in the continent might be, your
code a parachute, green waiting for rain, each day, now
promises weekend luxury, breezes that die away and rise
before the absence of thoughts, cicadae draining silence, back
flush of listening, waiting for one, . . . wet caress on new
membrane, bare exterior, skin or scale, even the birds . . . yet
wetness an insistence less than the push of leaf upon leaf,
swaying hush of intake, breath as though newly created, wind
beneath breeze for another . . . in the beginning, . . . but where
does it begin, an exhalation beneath the frame?, under the
fucking greenness of waiting, everyone's thinking the same
thing, maybe it's in the eye like a mind or brain spout, all
contiguities flowing into this notion of coming and going at
once, blinking as skies, as day into night, sets on our rising


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