“This is it”

I made it to the lake. My hands smell like water and fish. Looking down at them & oh: you put a hand in my swimsuit. Is this love? My skin feeling differed. In the wind and rocks a wave recoils on other, see, water in my left ear. Wind from camping upstate, long gone, so why. I felt a storm of night is pushing me & tires, left and right, with lightning lights. Now on the beach is warm and damp and where is, fish? From the storm got a feeling of waves, though I can’t see—my back was arched and dizzy eyes, here it is. I look down at my hands, they are water and fish. I do not recognize your gust is swelling from the right and I’m sand—this is it.

We get our days out, after work. And have been working hard to get to the after of a let’s say box of eggs. There is a texture of the aftermath, you say & I repeat. How they get me so good. I listen to a texture of discourse. It’s just repeating now. “There is no repeat there is duplicate and you can duplicate.” We left Costco as a lake of duplicate and love in bulk: our membership is in the trunk. We are so stacked & heartful is dizzy. Even my glasses blur and various roads align and signs, I squint. But swerve & hit your post whose faulty reflection when tearing the mirror: oops, we start spinning, oh crash this such, and this is it.

I made it to the hospital. A grandmother pronounces words plus groups of other words. In the room are sentences making up a story of mémoire en absence, where to start. I map the story a napkin. The air is unconditioned so thick, feels like nature but a story hypertwined. I wonder if they’ll leave me, homeward bound. A grandmother is, forgot a language, whereas, always present. Where was I? Behind the door is my cats scratching for dindin, messaging tones, a meow. Understand their frustration in the face of crashed again, but they know the drill, trying, I’m lost, listen to sentences, making sense and guesses, this is it.

I made it to the kitchen, but it’s always me who has to cook. Standing front of my granite island, desert around water too warm and sand, thick sanding feet. Palm trees synthetic like hors d’oeuvres on shiny floors. Feeling decommissioned tonight. But I don’t have enough money to stand here and look at the trees. Need to cook again and work and cook, and the island, oh nice! here it is. I make it to the island. Put my hands on the cold and the critters’ assembly makes its demands. I don’t feel comfortable with this conversation. There are crabs start giving me sandy head which can’t seem to wiggle, yes I must cook again, this island. For conquest. This is it.

Ok good now you have me, now in the tub is you sticking on me, I say I can take it, you can do me all good no wrong. This is communication they say and stick. And now it’s warm, I tweak. Can I be your little sewage your spittoon? Inside me are words you refuse to define, “tepid” or “a shrew.” You don’t want these words in our sex life but ice cream maybe yes in tub, feels good—that’s the meaning of tepid, here it is, looked it up. Don’t we all need sewage though? Please spoon me feed sorbet, for a taste. Or tense up your shoulders when we do. In your arms is me & I’m a little thing, squeezed! I need your speak affirming. Oh, yes, this is it.

.6.

I made it to a stop on tracks, writing the roman à clef of american fatigue. In the novel are empty billboards, or rusted midwest fence. Trains are slower than the past. And like today for instance was man or woman say, lover and lover, here it is, horse rode in the forest, it was autumn and yellow leaves, the wind and words they said and red sun closed their eyelids. How just a waning light over pollute alleys can create this a lull. Identities getting confused and start to scream, slipping through stream up sets of systemic error. Staying with falls afloat, rather dreamless of late, but when I do, “this” is what it is.

.7.

I made it to the lake, or barely did. There is: stones in my shoes. In my shoes are sweat and blood from recent collisions I guess, did meet a goose halfway and crumbled my quack so disruptive a stare. A penguin stalk & beat me with melody queefs, unwarranted. Walk to lake today is battered & freighted, tied down commercial routes, flashing rectangular. Hence the wind and crooked pace—but I made it, decoratively. They say it’s good for the gander. No longer breathing, just stone and set on top of other, it’s cairn. Oh yes and out so calm. My ankle tied with silly brace, we’ll stay. Shoes off nursing a honk, forming a path, a tilly breeze, or may. This is it.

.8.

Trying for balance in the game, with tipping hand. I want this bad. So put your fingers within. A zone of encounter is subtle. Tenderness among or over skin is how we love. Trying stability is inside on, for us to stand and finally could say: yes, here you go, here’s the spot. Oh just would be so, could. Whereas, your company such parallels of misaligning. Whereas, our mergers incomplete as dialed. Vying for head where ours wander off, speeding on for a lane to keep, or muster on acquire. I look at hands like a vector, if you could, onto me. Trying for sentences afoot. Step in this spit is me & gawp. I’ll become what this means, to you.

.9.

I made it to the body shop. I look at the sign says “bring your own parts” and worry might not succeed any daily expect. Absent parts is reason for my venture, regrettably, brought nought. I don’t understand the motive. Another sign says “body craft.” Expecting lessons of the day, walk and scoop with my smile. You craft me some parts today? Or you give some a hand me yes giving very strongly yours are greasy dark and hunch. You could totally grab that. That uniform maybe, bring it too? Oh here it is in full. I need your parts today, don’t have my own. I can wait. No craft or run, I wait, am here. Please help? Yes, this part. Hmm. This is it.

.10.

They towed my car again, so I made it to a train then jump off tracks and ride a hitch to nowhere called Towanda Illinois, pop. 430. Signage it is clear and sparse. Each of their flag gigantic owns a house, or flaunts: they all own a neighbor plus their own truck and like to tow each other too, buy one tow one, which means my car is off to where it’s exhausted, dusk or some. For weekends they love a parade of floating trucks & being extra pride about it—gala queen trying to sell memberships for the suburban dream, kindly decline is very much, would just love some back of mine; here I am shedding clams at the hips, my weight in capital of tow, or brick—is it?

.11.

Wherein you’re tired of my outings, want me splint into a shape of line, forced to settle for prairies and flats. I’m sure you’d have me jolly and we’re doing so fine hi honey, such a salve, and choking back. Yet forced to watch these wild geese chasing my fantasies of trucks by nine ton, usinage of vitriol blunt pomme, selling out at the rest stop, out for nights and cowboy days. My endless string of wonder & crashout unrolls in front of you. If I don’t adhere, what if it’s a bad fit, then wyd? Yesterday gave me six sentences for creating giant hybrid sheep to count asleep & agents of chaos. Please do forgive a slant a sway is a good one?... No?

.12.

Days without you are slower than others, with rain. On the side of the road is a tow truck awaiting tow. Is another one issue of impotence, a passerby. I’m feeling calm and cruise of drink. Like a patient. Here I am grey stone speedway, transformed under this coat is drench. Please stay in your lane, be patient while the rain, while jam, during. A truck was crashed under the low clearance. Squooshed top and crumbled onto road. Parts everywhere, but is all good. Not even a finger moving in spectacle. Life is an understatement: we’re just waiting. Red light, green light, and strobes until a moment takes. Oh, I see moves.

.13.

Episode, following a letter from you definitive: I’d made it three words & a rhyme of new american age. This Is It and I Am It and You Are It and So Is That, etc. Arts of breathing myself through finitude, sans toi. As skin reaches for husk, within, three words I can’t send. Stuck in a secular no way out of the rhyme. I won’t say what it was. Processing Form I-485. Suspended clause we chase a ball, active creatures of line. Is this it here now, is now it this here, is it here this now now, is here this it is this now, it here this now here is it. Signed up for mutité cyclical. If you can’t pronounce what it was or name a start or end, then what is worth?..

.14.

… What if your derniers mots had the power to cast me into the Backrooms, your letter a portal projector, getting me no-clipped—I should explain: when we live in the world we are clipped to it, means we are anchored, or tangible, yet not so solid as people think: boundaries are glitchy, and any second might take off your clips: think of this chair as fallible, a fallacy that gives & I went straight through into down there is a room with large carpeted yellowy space, or madness mono-yellow & endless million squares of room is trapped in your own breath. Contrary to popular belief there’s no evil creatures in here. Being alone with your terror sufficiently

.15.

… vacuum & then eating frozen mac n cheese was supposed to “reduce guilt” but feeling just as miserable. I wanted to become “this ruthless tallboy of flavor twisted plan to become explosive bubble & recycle your soul,” and contain 0% juice. Look up: how to get rid of juice. Get rid of I can shed. This ruthless tallboy power and cold eye into the land of opportunity, hereby acknowledging: it is what it is. Calmly presenting the goods on offer, no guilt & the can this is can recycle your soul… the mac n cheese alas is done again, recycling but myself, sequential hand, where is my twisted plan? bubble around me duds, what else is there to save

16.

… smoking blueberry swisher sweets on the highway overpass, up here trying to love, and wait and live, and then do what? shilling for a dollar of ordinary fish and their quick flashing beams, yet I am conflictive. as deep drinketh the smoke, I gup! and out of paradox explicit, pulling open my lids & split at every page, I do refuse to learn. your water is so temperature today, let me fill up your tank. we can wait all day for a hit on the pole, just for the pleasure of saying “fish on!”, “this is it!” til then we bide a geico overlord, monitoring each line of road and smoke & always, always reward a bream with discounted rates for the holiday!

17.

… so it’s back out for sun and sweat a go. Accumulate seconds or minutes is a record, with hands again. So much climbing now I’ve grown a carapace of calluses; my people call it horn. Grownsome, lonely. If I touched you now, what’s like a layer protective: filtering dispenser a substance where a fountain, long me—getting strong hands will rid. Can’t pet or be pet, I’d be as rough as required, reality confused for sex. For now my hands in reaching with the sticky out, our dreams have turned to goo. My hands are adribble, vacuous mouth, dommage. There’s a sense of liquid, a sense of not. What to do with tired limbs, so limp, if rest:

18.

… I speak slow now, barely running: the sunset was setting, it’s quiet depression, or a stalemate. this whole midnight is a headlight on deer, thinking: starlink is watching me, so like fine, it’s safe & monitored. online recollections of face and blur. I used to have ideals, now tucked them in. when the music is giving very abandoned, like streets with lights and lichen out, or meadow. sometimes i guess it has to be night time. i don’t write poetry i remember sentences we would speak to american love like “my kingdom for your ass.” not much but headlighted, this surfacing of night, and thud, and trod. this simple buzz I wake

19.

… and M sends a picture rooftop. She says peaceful and uses “cool.” She’s filming her mirrors. So much distance in film I think, just showing rooftop and plants, or sun. On the rooftop is sun and plants and “cool,” perhaps to join. Definitely would love to, if allowed. But just think of constraints: retina, glasses, screen, plane, train, bus, door, stairs, etc. Explains why yours a mirror only deal. Will you show face one time? your glasses too and smile, your mouth, please give them here, sans conséquence. We can go on and on with life, please understand—rooftops are made for mouth and “cool.” Sure you know what I mean, from behind, cold screens,

.20.

… parked and feeling shackled by desire, there’s a billboard say 2-digits-for-truth, but I drove past and can’t remember which. these poems very splendor of parking lots at the moment and desire to annihilate. and then having a few thoughts like would love to eat gas station frog legs off your ass, fried ones down in OK. or—whan the blode is made thynne, soo folowyth consumpcyon and wasted. or a canker is melancolyc impostume, eatynge partes of the bodye. our tongues & hectic glow, at night, the impending. what if we kissed by floating trash and the unknown refuse of promised lands? wherever they may roame, shall I

.21.

...I made it back to my street is full of girth and potholes, only now patched & then new ones will come, hollowing maps for a season. Everyone’s busted tires around, worn under carriage, clearance is low. So I walk out at night with cans of spray and desacrate: the city tolerates a hole, long as it’s neat. My interventions in minor, it’s cross or spiral, enough to be seen, without a shock: blue eyes, green at times, meaning trees. Fill your own holes, no asphalt, but a color touch. Keeping a spray at home, therefore I must beckon. They answer my call overweek: my scribbles acovered & we can drive again,

22.

… yet loitering in front of regulation signs, playground of mine and still. on the emptiness are debris flying overroad, so warm and worn. a car passes and ruffles up a storm of plastic and cardboard. takes flight. what falls outside is nobody’s problem. I sit on the edge of the wall is a ledge, with bars, so much is happening: a car, random flight of cartons, wind in some tree, children laughing afar in curated playground. got lofty views of empty lot & celebrate, my vague terrain is cool, fly as cardboard, I’m high. still moving now? mirrored by heaps of a craven mass junk, must be so still, with cold appliance. out of the frame, or chute,

.23.

… for there such hate around, man this shit gas, look there’s police, the kind we cry, nose downshirted, and scream. private army and drones up sky, for it’s never us to shoot, feels like stand and walk, it’s us on street, walk from one end to other none. on both sides are pigs and shields and gas from which cannot escape, it sticks on walls on face or words. and where is mine, I mean, my shield—I can’t say here it—on the other ocean, where you? but. also my friends are screaming. i can’t hear a voice belong. it’s them, any voice now friend, any minute. it’s coming and we drone. it’s rising high, left, smoke and gas and right, we, friend, we’re going, where,

.24.

But I found myself in court! Or so a labyrinth it seems with aisle and departments, stores and stories when I turn body goes woosh & woosh and pivot weird, or surf. Sure, plenty of time is waste. I wander make a list, department of business, department of children, department of citrus—oh ok stop by door and stare, I made it, here it is. For what I’m sure of sure, slide open: now other voices finally. Opinions are being pronounced. Judge speaks: Oh footnote 4, I love footnote 4. They found a fitting loophole for my forms, I can jump here & twirl I wave at everyone, hey guys I’m here for the bitter luck, this me now, I’m in love! This is it.

.25.

I made it to the county jail. Not cuppable I said, kept crashing for hand is full of sky, and love is full of birds. I feel so lighthearted in the cafeteria serving subpoenas for my seagulls. My love is argumentative, yes, or French: surely I’m not to blame. Been taught to speak poorly and hang around dubious—but should be free to bask and love. Whatever their morale, these quackers lack of foundation. A homie gull pats on my back and whispers “go off, champ!” Hold on, trying. to get a grip on this bar, oh! I’m out! I want to be in love and chirp, NOW. This here summer so short and once October comes, this is it.

.26.

I made it to Walgreens. Fixing a culture cocktail of booster shots, cigarettes & jerky yet speakering voice says to drink bleach, pourquoi pas? same concept is coherent plus functional. Might cleanse it might. None of this sounds crazy, it’s all part of a game. Plus would I care. Walked all the way here with my vaping on rig. I have it connected to a tube sticking long from my bag, plugged mouth & be making constant cloud. Best method I found & keep my hands, free. Doctor said each vaping trip to Walgreens takes one day off my life. But if it’s one for one with a coupon for bleach, why not? Sounds ok when you put it, like this.

.27.

Laying down in ditch, feet two up on slope. It’s dizzy like, what’s where; guess it happened again. I’m in the natural & it’s very space. Everywhere is oil from the car into a river turn, flows between my toes. Dark lubricant brown is liquid. Runs under leg, warm very sigh. Why naked now, skin darker spoon on thigh is marmalade, this polluted freeing canned or cathartic so hard, here it is. Is coolant is phenom, care if anyone see. No blinker & sun full, oil spread, few throbs. If some one skid or two care to join, do please very welcome here slide. In such position, blood flows my face is red and dark, see, flush. So fine is here I lay. This is it.

.28.

I made it to a gas station. Rally there, or boot. Packed so much ice & drink, in Styrofoam carbonate is dirty clothes of me. Wash off in room with cup, or rest. Else, given how sticky... In this country no such cheap save for inflating substances. Course that means gas & bubbles also carbonated. In the restroom: inflate. I have protection, plugged up as a bit, um, puffed up. Make so big and strong. Here it is. I emerge from the restroom and in the store are people asking me for brats. Inspired for the courage I need. Tell them I want the tea, but I get it twisted. Everything comes in bulk, touch through volume, no snap, my rubber bubbly. This is it.

.29.

I speak big now, and chant to a new cast of lords. No scream is melody is grace; believe in beauty and balance of our float. Geared up on the river, screens and beer. Floating, I’m floating. Father: I stretch my hands of pray, my hands are full of drink. I’m wearing armor, hairs basking with the fishes. Here it is, SUCH HOLY GEAR. So big is for I prep: preceding the event is shopping for insurance, need it to float. I can carry this world: my consumption, this bulky, so buoyant. Orange donut signal, “swag on max,” hat and beer screenery, spreading my arms to the sky, and float. Out here cruising contingencies and sun. This is it.

.30.

Seconds ago, we had moments of stabilization. Quick flips then water bounced & pfft, we flew! I lost it all, so empty-handed now, and then. Wasted from beer and buoy deflated. Story of faulty gear suppose: still made it to the lake. The river mouth is wide, tall spit. In the lake are humans and leisure walk and drinking, various setups. In this country of displacement is a crowd reaching for destined grounds. Transport yourself to a walkable destination: this is a walking place. On me are many eyes for I have no transport. Here I am. No need to look. I’m sure I still exist when lids are shut. No need to check, it’s fine. So very simple. This is it.

.31.

Gee, I love to commute and to consciousness. Rhythms in train, we’re banging heads: play hard, work hard out for balance. For absolute boredom needs entertained. Keep moving. Trying to schlep my boon out of that state. Yet crooked knees bent for balance. Maybe I could make you a kiss, as in foreign, my language? Nothing too clean, or such what I can give. I look down at my feet: there’s a certainty of floor here, yet troubling absence of smell, a feel. Ascending to a state of, I am beaconing, sharply go like sonar tilted head scanning each room for tracks. Yet if I could pursue, in forest of ponder. My hands and feet aloft. To err, and fro. Is this it?

.32.

I made it to the lake and brought the instructor’s manual for summoning the waters—here come the gathering my acolytes of ducks and gulls of lake, they chant. At the edge of the concrete beach is a gull inflates his throat and bangs an absolute screamer bent back down his chest and like what are you screaming at, then lifts himself back throating up the sky, summoning the geese and lake & jetskis also heed. Ceremony afoot where all of know their role, a suitcase laid on such concrete: everyone assemble, and chorus. I walk solemn, and hope: may the lake ship what we had or might, and ship me back to you: I walk into the case and fly. This is it.

.33.

Portalled I made it to the geese awaiting dress rehearsal. This is Washington Park with empty, marshes around, a walking path, and the geese were in row. Sternly and capacious as they’re honking how far I’ve come. Think busily, industrial in this breathless pace, if my mémoire is back, and if I’m ready now to join this local game of life: here it is, my adjustment of status. As I hesitate, tapping shoulders, they ask me to recite. Do, tell us! Now’s time for you to be it. And run! for it to be really it, and this to be all there is, and for there to be nowhere to go but here, and for nothing to be now, but this. I was ready to speak:

.34.

Or almost, for in the next ep. I was taken by geese to a street left to cross, there was: alley behind, an opening, into a vision of each missed line of you with a shade and a half, yet a sense of purpose. In the back street was a voice repeating “…” sinister, hooks, the geese wouldn’t explain why floating leaves, whereas, the endless trashcans suddenly opened and chattering at me. Flat-footed, comatose alley wards of ecstasy. New forms of a spirite, welcoming ghosts of my ceremony: the geese chanted again, let’s drink to staying with. Let this alley really be it. So we stayed with the cold, until dispersal

& I opened a door:

.35.

I made it home. Yet needs clearing, perhaps, or a new game. I need to make it “cool” for us to be, for you to come back and say, oh neat! a nest. I hope you’ll touch my shoulder and then say “goose.” First off work hard and then we rest, and when is then? Soft hands and elastic smell of fresh, oh like almond maybe with department of citrus, hint. Every name is a smell, and smell will call you home. Cushion the taste of a season in your shirt, “so sweet like air.” Will you have me in nest of us? A silly chirp, dis-moi tu reviens quand, regarde, I’ve made it back! Then? maybe now, for I’ve tried all there was. Here is nest, it’s my love, take a look. This is it.

‍ ‍

coda. winter.

Our cold now in this practice is violent & delightful, no pleasure lest we tire of questions and quotations. Always have a whole peace of objects, likely the dearest little things, best take away & wear it, be reckless & resolved on returning gratitude. Now in the cold is no pleasure of repairing, love this breakable, cheap objects valuable, a bottle opening duck out of antiques or a pigtail candle holder, one just broke this morning, this time you love them & also me? Let’s not increase. À la maison, sweetness and some of that. Sooner or later we will break, and we say: we are like books, and always more to it.

In your hair we’ve made it, a current your machine, that makes me crackle: what is the current that this, long line & necessary waist. Here’s a serene length of curl, this is there & dark place only white and red on your lips, pink is scarlet, bow is color. A line distinguishes it, just line is it. Color and line of us to show curly and worn: we’re adding blank on space, single lines and broad, the littlest thing lightening, the least a flower, big delay in the speaker, nursing. This clean a dress, a waist, here’s a dressing of color that is me and fingers and tots, is it.

A little song called anything, on your skin I shudder. Come and say what, I’ll spin your little spice like really little lace. Lean on the top, spin on the bow arise. If it is absurd then it is loving, and nearly set in: a peaceful life to you, a letter a warm blanket a chimney house and nearly the best and regular birds are frozen now, and farther has in sight, and counting. We widen the receivers, with little tread. Or nothing. Please could please could to me, plus more, could you for me. Sit in this mode. This is it.

Suppose this book was wet and stops. But it was! It was placed back into your doing lap it was, returned and needless now. Suppose une expression réaliste et reliable, suggesting itself, pleasing very. It means wafers, little chance of snow, resting beside you: a prairie, a bed of. Posit a bodysuit. Your chest invaluable & covered up with little piece of string. And really then it’s really here. My remarks in a calm space with heat & song, the song this is.

We were found beside, and I know what fond means. What is labored and breathing, what gives—no claims. “I don’t see where you have one.” Des journées à inspecter nos boutons respectifs: je t’admire, tu m’auscultes. Like little waves of attention, hereby, bedside. At each turn is a turn and we find us tending. It needs to be tending.

La lumière c’est dimanche, une décision sensible : la pluie, le vers, le blanc, and plenty of breathing. Inside we are roving, by the plastic fireplace. We love to be inside and in the care of which, this is.

“fin”