You, the woman whose brain causes me trouble
You, whom else?
When I, a dry man
who lived in the desert
when I speak about the desert
it is nothing new I’m telling you
I won’t know the true
Ain’t me who wants all answers
And she is with her now
And he is with him now
as I predicted
as if humans were a queer study
which I feel Duchamp quite did well
all the street walkers
appear in the opposite standard
against stereotypical classifications
And how our body becomes the breeze?
And how our body becomes the wind from the north?
What about this?
give me another chance:
And how about poems for the blind?
And how about poems for the people who are mute?
And how about poems for the deaf?
And how about poems for the people who can write with two hands at the same time, wouldn’t that be two poems in a row?
is this how the trees are suppose to be next to a trash can?
You don’t know?—
Why don’t you see?
Why you don’t speak?
What don’t you move?
Are you dump and deaf?
Are you still here?
She or he has to write their own shit
He or she’s been
“surfing in a rocket”
always on my cigar
waiting to built beauty
and there is where she appears
as she is, an unknown, a stranger
So, she is now looking at me
then, I see that she is too hot
She sits next to me
she asks me…