That bastard Lomo before a digitial photo, "It's fake!
See here, the crinkled edges layered ever so?"
I think it as a plastic aegis adorned by children
playing Vikings and Townswomen.
"It folded up when he scanned it; unless
his foot is jointed funny at the three cuneiform bones,
the picture's a scam; that person wasn't in the composition."
I stop, "Do you suppose people scream like the ravaged women
when they see it's a fake?" Lomo, baffeled by my question,
"Of course; These are the most reputable screams."

In an alley spotted with graffitti,
a pastiche of half-assed gang signs and water-stained bunnies,
a bushy headed guitarist with eyes as sky
lifts a steel deck chair over his head.
He strains through his worn Fruit of the Loom T and
I see malbourished biceps.
Through a window pane viewing the alley, he is staring at me
in my Ben Sherman shirt easily lifting the latte to my mouth.
His scrutiny informs me I wouldn't lift metal chairs above my head
while my band mates carry all the amplifiers
out of my Mazda's trunk. I taste vitriolic foam.

He stabbed his cock though the wall
ignoring my bundling board stall on our first date
as if his travels were so long to warrant
no return trip.

I should masacre him;
rip his balls off with my hand
and luxuriate as the semen and testosterone
consort to lubricate my arm;
Watch while it dribbles to the floor in veined flecks of white.

Would they throb, still flush with anticipation?
Or come upon my cotton shirt,
consummate a wet spot easily messed for sweat
from prolonged grunting on the toilet?

Only he and I will know our indescretion:
A fling to match the arc his organs score
as I cruise down the interstate.

Do you remember me?
Or, as the French would say
"Te souviens-tu de moi?"
Do you remember of me?
A substantive recollection de
quelque chose.

For a time it gathers and persists comme le café ou
we sat and people-watched in a classic Parisien fog.
Peut-etre? Tu me souvienndras
sans brouillard. Of something.

It is always foggy in Paris I think.
At least I recall through that mist
from unforgettable café on a unforgettable Parisien street
with an unforgettable someone. Quelqu'un?
Je m'oublie, embrouille; where were we?
Do you remember of me?

I met an man in book store
between fiction and poetry anthology,
an aisle of false reality. His knuckles white
like the plastic bag clutched at his waist
and his face curled upon itself in agitation.

As I gestured to a book expecting to
claim it and leave
he,
blinking his entire face at me twice,
scowled and accused, "this book
is misplaced and shouldn't be with the lies."
Atop the shelf tucked carefully against the back,
3 inches taller than the best in artistic lies,
sat a book enrobed in blue detailing the times of a Russian
jailed for teaching mathematics and filosophia to "gold
without consent of the manure."

- Blink -, "They banned anti-social thought like math
and ritual sacrifice," he said when discovering
the pagan symbols on my shirt had
woven themselves into his mind.

I, in defense of the dwarfed books about the shelf,
and the clerks who may be waiting for a chance
to re-shelve this irrational testament to sordid story,
indicate the authors, both upright E's among a sea of S's,
and suggest he may simply be jailed again
in a world without truth.

-Blink - And as he shuffled down the aisle
"A wreaking Commie oligarchy,"
defining his metal and shit terms with care
as if I should shelve his words
standing a full three inches above the rest.

I commit the text to paper
cleaved carefully
at the weight of the sentence
and pretend that deconcatinating a concept
is art for the page.