Self Portrait (Soggy Tree)

Scan

(Or I stagger and without form ask to take your hand, sounds of crickets between us. There is so much to the oranges, the books we will always carry like the clouds that bring a great rain inside us. How stupidly unbelievable to be living, how stupidly incredible the miracle of a fly buzzing ’round your ear when the room is of a stillness. On the news, the people dying are equally you.)

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Self Portrait (Television)

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(Your janky governor, your eyes eating up all the water with focal emphasis, you at the center of all things;

That’s not me on the tv, that’s not me in the song without tongue, that’s not me when acrid sunlight;

Of a certitude, of a million shapes; We could’ve been a different sort of land; Our bodies could’ve been of a certitude, not this kind of goodbye;)

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Oxidation

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You my ocean, my kindest sky, my Enormous Reader (whatever your shape, whatever your valence), you my softest war fighting against that Bigger War, and in dreams winning, you my gentle burst of milky breathing, I’m trying so bad to get to you from here so bad it hurts at the knees;                         You my desperate architecture, arrangement of stories around the center of your breathing or whatever keeps you alive, you my dizzy child, my molasses of Wednesday afternoon (where everything, for a few hours, goes still in the streets, with a silence and a sadness, with a joy and a gratefulness; And then the moon is the eye of the coldest bird), you my ampersand                            There is how much time left in you to adopt the things of living;                     You my Enormous Reader what is your secret thing left unsaid, your portion of love,

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Self Portrait (Without Shoes)

Scan

(I said, No way, the shape of the cosmos is the shape of a bowl of pho; She said, No way, the shape of the everything is the shape of a burrito; I said, Think of a bowl of pho, think of the ceramic roundness, the simmering heat of the broth;  She said, Think of the definite shape tightly wrapped, the salt of oceans, the dancing of teenagers to clumsy music, the drunk drivers, the trees, phone calls, letters;  I said, Think of the noodles, the myriad landscapes, think of the bean sprouts, the coolness of thin skies, think of the Sriracha sauce, the fire of starlight; She said, You can eat a burrito with a jalapeño on the side or the burrito can come with salsa already inside; I said, With chopsticks, with one of them deep spoons that sometimes slide into the bowl if you don’t know what you’re doing; She said, With your hands, your bare hands, a napkin.)

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6

6, this incredible need of mine when I was maybe 6 to spin and spin and spin and, without end, at the strange center of all I knew, thinking (in the heart, where the truest thoughts are thought) I can be fixative, I’m not no fucking point of departure always; I remember the feeling of all things blurring in lines solid but also of a wind, an air, an utterance of color, and pliable; Of course my parents were always embarrassed as hell, of course my parents thought something must be wrong with me, of course my parents lost sleep over this incredible need of mine to spin and spin and spin and;

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I Sat Down and Collected My Vertices and Thought About It For a Bit and Said, Cool, Okay, Maybe a Book Can Begin Here, and Again I Was Faced With the Multiplicity of My Yellow-ish Errors

1. Hey cabron, in the mornings, as I pull myself (or am pulled) from my dreams of magenta seas upon which my father stands by the shore and holds a fishing pole, line out to sea, patiently waiting, and I come to taste again the dryness of my mouth, it is you I think of by certain extension. Do you know you never once heard me speak? Never once thought to feel the awkward contents of

2. Look, I’m a metabolic burst of caffeinated energy. I suspect I am not the only one. I suspect all of us here, in this room, breathing this shared air, exhaling what the other will take in as oxygen,  share some basic structural whateveryoucallit. Here, we are all scientists of the wonders and meaning of living. So. The other day, I sat down and

3. Una torta de mole; cada vez que orderno un platillo con mole, en esta ciudad,  siento el triste aire-sin-aire de comer lo que mi mama puede hacer con el amor de tres lunas; mi mama con ojos de miel y arena y sal. Y ahora aqui estoy. En la tristeza de mis horas. Un adulto, lleno de

4. The smallest door is sometimes too big. Maybe the smallest door is an ampersand, little glue, one word and one word coming together to make a

5. My open window from the top of a hill on Daly City. I can look out and observe the stillness of San Francisco under the starless night we share here and everywhere. It occurs to me, sometimes,  this is the room of all my lives, a room

6. El primer beso que existio para mi fue un arbol de eucalipto. Un arbol dulce en el jardin de

7. There is a kiss at the center of this our field of lives, where your flowers and my flowers are born to breathe and sustain the

8. I thought maybe

9. Dejame decirte: nunca tuve la menor idea que mi vida seria forzada a crear una teoria positiva ante la posibilidad de una solitud enorme, el tamaño del sol, sol que canta las canciones que para nosotros son los girasoles que usamos para

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I Was Gone In A Strange Way

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In a dumb way; and half my eyes
were stuck

miming

And then look look! Montgomery BART station
I imagined myself all the time looking over some fence
and into the Evening Milk Of A Buncha Stuff

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And with a pen and the teeth of my Wednesdays
I drew your face as I saw it then, and I was only 27
(give or take a few hair follicles)

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And still I sneeze; I am still sneezing

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