jesture:

December 9, 2011 § Leave a comment

word

not nearly over all, but under

the entire world searching for their ears
inside a singular coffee cup
trying to think outside lines their mothers
drew.
and you

sitting on words in Ambala-
it’s going out of business.
so they don’t come out

of you, but of others
in numbers

mostly just the two words you turn down
as if you’ve listened, but not heard them

waiters with poise and black eyes
throwing you glances
touching your fingers, offering
sugar

it’s not sugar you need.
it’s sex, and lots of it

not as an audience in you own right
but a white, somewhere
between the living and the
just-born

lies the sacrifice
in words.

they’ll fit on a page but not
in your mouth. swallow,

or spit out

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