when the moon subsides and arrive five figures— 


                                       an alchemist, a janitor from the future, a self-made gamer. a pleasure model and a love terrorist, visible to the naked eye severed from other


                                                                     people can see everything in a circle.

                        (yet I was shrinking from several angles, obscured on many occasions.)


settled on an edge such bodies looked human or luminous anomalies, dressed

in a black medley of sound and whatever one


          wishes. do you want wine or gin. tell your friends to come again.






when we start noticing the disappearance of objects. a strong soap, bubbles extracted     

when stirring in the curing agent. a meat slicer for cutting. mobility 

                              reduced, prosthetics such as hip joints or valves. without producing

volume (raising voices) would we even exist. this has nothing to do

with the Moon’s face belying a particular likeness

                                                                                                                            as every face demands






of someone she used to worry over. to carry a certain resemblance to, a degree

                                                             of vagueness or synthesis of various



                          faces. to what extent recollection is faithful after a time inscribed in a surface as a slab meant to convey



weight. (where did you go if only I didn’t

know) but at that crossing always something to stop her from receiving

an appropriate body, what a woman would try settling

                       for months, years, it's heartbreaking. a score, an affair,

                                          it’s all the same she just wanted to declare



                bankruptcy. couldn't covens be custodians of metal and blood. she wanted

control of organic things. (my dress is a fabric wrapped at the waist. as soon    


                          as you let go, I unravel.)






in the language of the epicenter an undulation


                                                                                            an underground explosion as waves move

                     through a body, a person changes in the corner of a room. damage

                        across a variety of systems detected. from cracks seep

toxins, heat. (I held you for a time and you started to whimper.)

      we arrive at different points



the ground falls away. (as soon as you let me go, I close.) calculate

the distance, deliver with a RAPPING that a mother is MATERIALIZing.

                                             anything to preserve a child. (are you my baby.)



                                                                             this winds up sounding holy, these winds are sounding





alarm: as a needle follows a groove on a revolving plate



                                              disrupted. she alerted others but they preferred pooling to a certain

part about which parts are generally



situated. the comfort of crowds. yet nothing fits. she’s tried assembling

      hundreds of interlocking pieces. where once were hands.

   (are you my.) isn’t anyone compatible. suitable or soft, a tender core absorbing



waves, a frantic friend in a sort of cage found in names called outside houses wailing.

                              within transmission of characters allegedly enabled

               embedded verse; reversing the side of a tape an attempt

to enter the subconscious. (intention carefully

                                         disguised, what I’d convince you, if I tried.)



           a TRUMPET blast carries most of a standing wave inside a column of air occupying

only a fraction of the volume. its predecessors did not have

                                 a valve though the effectiveness of the instrument was questioned only once.