An Object by Ezra Pound

This thing, that hath a code & not a core,
Hath set acquaintance where might be affections,
And nothing now
Disturbeth his reflections.

“Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything except wounds. With time, the hurt of separation loses its real limits. With time, the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desiring body has already ceased to exist for the other, then what remains is a wound... disembodied.”

-Samura Koichi

You Mustn't Leave the Kids Unattended to

  Softer it runs closer to the pubesce A tuft escaped the trappings of your underwear then another as the first was felt. Your legs all but forgotten your knee feigned sleep, leaving the hips ajar & saying discreetly that "Oh yes it is permissible". I fancied the smooth rut not the deep furrow that has lended access to the unseen but that it being of the world of material it held for a moment empty-whole potential but made from it something familiar, something to be held. Fondling those loose curly cues others came out to play, but no I didn't venture in I found common ground I feel the new skin much like a healthy child a little pudgy (Yes I know you were born with dimples on your lower back) Your knee has made the common ground less dangerous & more inviting with your womb a plateau only slightly raised Your skin stretched & smoothed flat the bones of your torso are hinted of (& followed as outlines to a puzzle) just as your panties reveal the make of your soft underpinnings nestled there & emitting warmth for us kids -the radiator is enough to heat the whole house.
  And just as it was offered it was taken away You pretended wakefulness Your knee jolted pushing my hand -possibly- into what you had at first intended it to bequeath but that now it was a sort of vindictive retort of "That's what you could of had!" And yes I had chose otherwise but now with a little curiosity in retrospect which turned into regret of lost opportunities; I imagine with my hand in your panties you would have possibly stopped pretending sleep & rid my penis of its irksome underwear (having fully explored all their recesses) And once in your grip you would apply some pressure bowing it back toward me & letting up so as to redouble & pivoting it slowly around it's axis, skimming the surface but always maintaining control as though you were the pilot (on some game) of a plane that bore precious cargo of which you are gently bringing to the ground & maneuvering with refrain but poised to land as though on the softest pillow you wish to only leave one impression & this was to be your mark, a veritable signature of which you are proud. [With eyes closed your picture is taken Your skin concealed & thereby preserved]            
     

A Sort of Running Dialogue Between Friends

  You appeared to be rising, the shifting background would begin to impose enshrouding your upper half, leaving just one leg visible. Now at a glacial speed, now skipping a few moments & jumping ahead of itself. Your posture sustained the same face, you didn't seem to mind -through the wonder & perambulation of your viscera externalized- your environment acting on it's curiosity. From the start it liked to share in your breath, your inhalation as well as the pressure that bore no visible roots & was all surface: it's release of breath. The place where the two met regular enough to be taken for granted, but in your static pose both could relish the momentary touch. We could say, "Your habitat has really gone to some lengths to include you", but this would be a negligible response for it has always been that considerate.

Black Stone on a White Stone by Cesar Vallejo

I will die in Paris while it rains,
on a day which I already remember.
I will die in Paris--and I do not run away--
perhaps in the Autumn, on a Thursday, as it is
  today.

It will be a Thursday, because today,
the Thursday that I write these lines,
my bones feel the turn,
and never so much as today, in all my road,
have I seen myself alone.

Pt. 2

The stairs bowed
accepting my weight fully, even in their old age
foot fall after foot fall each more of a shuffle or a role like an old man heaves for breath,
  half bent over
each sounded their distinct timbre; I
didn't so much lean against the banister, as I used it as a balance
  while they where learning to be legs & feet
I lumbered as though on stilts either for the first time or that it maybe had been awhile
My right hand kept to itself hanging limply tossed this way or that, rolling fabric through fingers as prayer         beads or as a tutor correcting a pupil's posture, braces the the chest.
In the dark, speech & the light in my eyes demure: all I can do is feel.
Yes a drink of water is what I intend on but the wood is slick in socks
  & the stairs are endless, they bend & twist in to what?

Pt 1

With eyes open, dreams faint wisps
Role models in combination with familiar environmental decour
My heart slows with the coming day
Legs still at rest arms too: branching that haven't the inkling to extend
themselves, & what (?), into the sun.
I lay awake with no need for alarm
(The birds haven't come to my aid yet)
The window gives what is already inside; My imagination imparts the only definition 
there is: where there is naught, there suddenly is, and then again without reason
there is comfort (Hey!). Yes  things change
  with no word of affirmation nor objection
My stomach barks, how curious...the day before
  enacts the possibilities of today.

Amidst displaced mattress & covers, my throat is dry. I feel it is time to venture
from this carefully wrought mold
for it has done its job, given my form 

A Fictional Viewing From a Bedroom Door ajar

From within
A sliver, over cast: the clouds, a throne superimposed over a perspective drawing of a staircase, apparently leading to theater box seats.
Are we enacting Beckett's End Game or the individual vignettes of Foot Falls?
 
  I remember the antique rocking chair -that my step dad insisted we move from place to place- now only elevating previously worn clothing, a few church bulletins & an old shoe box (with who knows what inside) resting beneath it's seat. These things seemed privileged with all the anonymous piles simply on the floor & under foot. Just one rat materialized from amongst the detritus; I felt confidant as a young savage with a blunt spear; the thrust was reciprocated with the rat's leap -at least five feet in the air. I now stood atop the bed as frightened as the surprise the rat felt of being shoulder level without legs to rest on. It was found a few days later in the live trap down the hall, it was enraged at the thought of it's own domestication. A day later it was dead, from what I'd like to think internal bleeding, it appeared to be in obeisance to what we'll never know.

"Live your life from left to right."

A man stands leaning more heavily on one leg, a few cars lengths away from an adolescent girl
propped up on the edge of a backless seat, umbrella awkwardly held by both hands nearly against her bosom
it is open overhead, in her clumsy hold the stem gets repositioned, the canopy seems to swoon every now &   then.
They are both enclosed, in what is thought of as an old open-windowless factory
A bulb hangs suspended somewhere above, it emits a faint yellow light
The man does not stand away nor toward the girl, that sits anxiously awaiting something in his direction:
whether that comes from above or from the black expanse (that both accentuates & delineates what is there of the man) that -just for now- hermetically keeps this little nucleus from any further physical adulteration
The man's gaze does not seem to fall in the direction pertaining to the external inclusion of this weight,
  heterogeneously given off;
The direction may not be from without the nuclei, the blanketing darkness might be lending to a latency from either of the two constituents.

I feel that the umbrella is an upside down pendulum attempting to point toward magnetic north & in doing so, it alone keeps time, irregularly (but whose to tell the difference) counting down the minutes. What if it's accuracy depends solely on how the girl's actual time fluctuates: from now slow to standing to wading to when it catches the smooth surface & skips quickly three times. Do they know where their at? Is she glimpsing what she is to potentially become? Since there are no manifestations, do they supply them? Have they made assumptions... I mean to begin with, has the man taken for granted the questioning part of the process.
Yes, her limitations necessarily came from without to begin with.   

  The leaves & twigs, as I poured, clung to my penis: I was going to stick it in Miranda's ass, but then I (enrapt)  happened to find within the blankets & covers a large box of these natural condoms. We are in the front yard, on a sort of detached pateo under the canopy of large neighborhood trees, kaleidoscopic rays momentarily illuminate parts of our bodies. There are a few stairs leading up to us; We perform at the shoulder height of an economically sized man. This I suddenly realize, is not the first time we have slept together, she seems to be oblivious of this fact.
  The neighborhood looks perpetually maintained, but there is never anyone about. Most of the houses are stories with the bottom floor depressed several feet in from the upper slab's face. All their driveways are inter- connecting roads & small one story shacks occupy the in-between blocks, as though they were being protected; just as we are elevated from any kid's possible view whether playing in an adjacent yard or gazing out of their second story bedroom window. And none of the kids were likely to be ours anytime soon, because the first coming I feel was sheathless & now my penis is encased in this cocoon, it would be at home -with this disguise- hanging from a branch of an evergreen tree. It still feels despite it's adornment & she seems to respond to it as being neither ruff nor irregular but as something fulfilling just the same without it involving any future aside from the immediate (& that is immemorial).           

Real Sex

"Mother trees inert", innocence observes (the mother's inertia is only recognizable from without).
   Kissing there deeply rooted water repellent feathers -the verdure of the chest- the migratory birds whom come year after year to nest within these outstretched arms; have they a tree that's similar in the warmer climate? Does the birds thoughts differ amongst the new Eco system, have they out of necessity come to a place that provokes their libido (that would otherwise remain dormant -if they were- to stay down south year round)? And what of the northern domestics as they defrost & preen, have they a need for direction on account of the seemingly indefatigable winter that has all but wiped clean many a furrow wrought of last spring, possibly even their need for sustenance or rather how to go about the task. Thence their example: the migratory birds after a long journey are hungry. And after both have supped, the formers completely revitalized as an all consuming fire ensues: beginning in their loins & quick to subdue, to apprehend & channel all their faculties (as the chaff is left on the threshing floor) into the willing of one thing.
  And so it could be said that their innocence remains intact apropos their lack of expectations; their desire to propagate as with later on their instinct to nest & protect their young being as tantamount in its envelopment of the senses (meaning their sexuality has no context, now that the prior deliberation is obvious & hasn't any need of their nostalgic recapitulation either -where the reassurance one acquires is false & need be entreated upon with ever more frequentation).
They haven't the luxury of a "love life" nor the adroit sensibility too feign their nakedness (transparency?).