It happens. sometimes
you, or you, form an out
line. Touching, these
adhesions. So that one
may remember, along
the edges, as if to

reshape a self. “I don’t
know who I am anymore.”
Is it a tragedy? Someone
departs; someone enters
through an opening.

a smudge of light
on the window. trickle
of soy milk down
the throat. smudge
growing to a beam
on the elbow. outside

on the leaves, layers
of feeling; that some
are round, some as flat
as paper; that light
trickles down my
throat, my stem

to a cold place under
the branches, under
the keep out poison
sign on the shed. they

can’t keep the metallic
taste wholly out of
the milk. this is not
the point. waiting for
some movement, or
taste. yet, movement
is tentative, at best

…i believe it is. ok.
say, the hands touching.
the knees hurting.
awareness is strong or
sharp. when we
focus. the one thing

…blots out everything
else. repeatedly
try to know. the sex
sense doors… open up

the six sense doors
….go toward that. don’t try
else. where do you go
from here?

we’ll leave the mind
….there. over
and over again. no
object… alone. is it
hard to notice?

* after a talk given by Sayadaw u Tejaniya

no rhyme or glue
to fix or calm it.
inside, a chest
full of motion. birds,
sand, winter, all
melting. cells leak
hot light. sugar
tower crumbles.
try to write it all
on the air for your
lover to find; wet
breath staining
the blankets, the
rag rug. calling
for help is no good.

uhh. uuhhhh!
hmmmm. uh.
ahh. uh. oh.
OH. hehh! eh.
muuuh. fuuh.
sa. sayy. sigh.
I, uh. huh.

moving quick this mind
thinks the thumb a sample
a scanner a thought
rushing it approaching
then gone noting
brief attractions before
exit muscles tendons eyes
set/fixed before the screen
this is now more than
habit but don’t stay
there too long she means
what the (it) says
one can’t know one must
move on otherwise
the terror of actual ex
perience the moment
of knowing what the
flesh knows: sometimes
too much too soon

I
get in
the way

there
is the
scapular fan

floating

on
fat and
muscle, I think

the
toe is
trying to tell

me
something.
I imagine it

has
an agenda
much like mine.

I
think,
therefore
I am
thinking

but
what of
the body?

I don’t believe
in nonfiction.

Now I’m going
to choose
an identity

and send it
to you.

*

more mail
through the slot?

what
to do with
this body of fiction…

let
me try it
on for size

*
“Return
to gender…
a dress just sewn.

It’s quite
a number.
Make it a home.”

I’m
itching to be
filled in.

*

a dress unzipped
so often
turned

smooth
side out
scratchy side in

I’ll be
the letter opener
you be the zip. file

*
Trying out
a counterfit,
slipping on

something,
one falls into

a feeling of
envelopment:
of content meant.

—-Tom Beckett & Jean Vengua

crawled into bed
crawled out of bed

big red tara
of my dreams

soup to begin
with. greet the

crone oh yes
“divine” do not

get stuck like
tacky lube to

“sense pleasures”
meaning

MEANING

and old age
sorry for nuthin

touchiness

the living
“flesh”

as well as
stuckness.

“Eve’s Alternative” a photograph by Mary Scherr

she
inhabits flesh
shifts sites, altars

reality
borders upon
borders open

why
not cross
that divide

or

has it
already
crossed you?