FUCK YR HEART II (h2so4 11)

(PREMISE: That love is the most revolutionary act two or more people can engage in.)

How long since we met at that there or other? Or rather, will we ever meet anywhere near here? What teeming "we" lies in wait for us to stumble on over there? And how will we ever sink into it, our wooing lows of longing blue?—our warming woes gone pink, pallid, and mumbling too, forever kipping on the raw green of expectation's insidious denial.

The industrious groundwork brings us up to now. Apart from that, a glance around: "Who goes there?" Too many questions for a simple quest along these rooms, the roses stop the pitch from corking round and pleasing us too much. The deep-blue iris of a glow caught looking. A cooking cloth left dangling cross the bed, brazenly damp on our behinds when we exile lazy co-workers.

How many steps forward, how many more back? What wizard slows down now to stir my heart-strings with a knot round its wrist? Then talkin' about taking a cab back home. More than that. Summer fills the days with sweat and turpentine, a humid spill of turpitude, on line to brook the seal of our hearts. Lease the seats cheaply until you break the Nile's banks with an airline's lifted threat of destruction.

While the cops poked holes in jelly donuts, I spied more threaded needles dividing up your ego. Admit it, timid persecutor and leased-time station programmer of circuitous political economies, you like the stunted ledges of livid and poxy affections. We don't need any more pop pap for the stolen ghosts or grammar awakened by the Sex Pistols' stormy Monday. "More steam!" the engineer chimed in just before Ronnie Regan Biggs' biggest blow defiled his brains and took off down the wrong track of the bivium.

Breezy blond clothes gum up the factory's flesh pot activities and tie the victims to a cross of hours. It hires Horus-faced Pinkertons to work them back in. Sloppy kisses shimmy up the shelves behind their picket lines. Nihilism tickets their misses' mistakes. "Dying for freedom" points out the revolutionary need for contradictory egotism where the metabolic logic of copulation confounds the false pyramid of power relations. Two notions mid the pyromaniacal desire to see the world renewed clasp hands.

The telos is denuded when you look at it in the afterglow of an orgasm, desire deadened, wallowing in love. Meager reality unmasked: we need to realize and accept this "all there is" in progress, this secret zeal of dune and sand to remove form from flux. No fuck-like revolution is a permanent renewal, only new tenements in which to dwell for an hour's now&—;love the waterbugs on the floor, the unwieldy tears in transience from the roof.

If we ever meet we'll change the world and gauge the lords' teeming financial woes, submitting our backs to love alone, the only change that never stops to catch its breath.


SIN IS (h2so4 #9)

Insecurity breeding insincerity in this bread and circuses of inconsiderate confederates di casa—next door where they slaughtered the silence of the lambs while we were trying to sleep. Elvis has civilized the building of this tower of Babel where everybody talks so loud nobody listens and they all think they're speaking the same damn language. Someday our sleep will come, but

Until then pundits have us labeled under the libel wire, reworked, and torn away from our original inconceivable selves. I, nother—in other words, your verbal swords of identity pass through me swiftly and are tied up for recycling on Friday. In other words, I'm beginning not to give a shit except for ethics anymore, because I know that

Selfishness is sin—from smoker to assassin, hashish to Hassidim, the inflexible code of egotism and exclusion. The law itself waylaid many fleshy selves with mechanical cynicism; more words about shall nots, want nots, and how many hands it's worth when you swipe that pork, or reap thy neighbor's crop. Actually, it's not that hard to tell right from wrong—we've all been victims of them off and on for most of our lives and we know

Sin is none other than cynicism itself, felt sick, went home, and is neither the cynic's kiss of death, nor known as the fear of losing one's self in silence. You can help what you feel (to feel it more by thinking about it) and that will make you feel (it) better. Sin is not caring about your own self-destruction through how you hurt others. Listen in: sin is still

Sabotaging the whole and parceling out the wordy blows with an eye towards rebuilding it in your own image. The real mission is this: dissimulation.


A WHIM TO THE SEWERS (h2so4 #12)

Less than a limit or the ghost of an impediment. More than the margin or the reader's reprisals. The stakes are rigged as well as the game. May as well put your finger on the trigger, hand on your hip. Words feed on desire, so tell me what you want. Tell me what you know, and how to know it too. And how do you know what to want? they told me and then they told me to shut up.

A depleted award, this self-discovery; a soggy, limitless sale. To the Diggers! Who didn't stake out their land. Instead they planted. Move into the most crowded spaces and make residue. Don't be lazy! Draw! It's always High Noon when you know what you want. There's no speed limit to selling timeless phantoms of residual desire. Reside instead on soggy pediments, implement residence as you go on to knowing what you want to make happen by saying it. Gainsay it. Words defeat desire by tasting so limitless in our mouths. Going on insures it. Draw! And run.

I told them then, mockingly, drawing in both sowers and reapers, to come and get me. You can't read me in my words, dear as the empath in you may be. I draw them dearly the nearer the rising of my desires, the whites of our eyes. And they make the tiniest ghost of me. Eeney Meaney Miney Moe; vowels are useless to me now that I know what not to want, what not to say. Yes, I too want not to know, to be able to say what won't as well as my will. And sign it, love, limitless and volatile.

San Francesco