Love Dwells Not in Our Will

                              The atom—


that great miracle in a little room—how it lingers as if dancing with filthy fingers, those human scissors of inquiry, ill-prepared but readied to be split opened entirely.


                              An orgasm—


that great miracle in a little room—how it lingers as if dancing with filthy fingers, those human scissors of inquiry, ill-prepared yet readied to split open every thing entirely.

As if the ribbon could oppose the scissor, as if a theatre of cruel intentions could either limit or free her, Fate coming to trigger secrecy and subdue seclusion greets her infantry.


          In the breakfast room of the brothel, Fate s(tr)ips—
                    resisting all rest at noon, uninspected gloves perform
                              porings out of sympathy, groping for tips—

          Hunger-shaped shingles sit blackfaced, so that the sky can eat—
                    kisses of stinging nettles strung out, tar tongues
                              running down the track-marked arms of the street—

          creeping-fog feet dampen decency as they swim in their thirst
                    to the feast, rowing tiptoed and missile-whipped
                              each into the embrace of harlot-chested artworks

          opening up to desert-dry interpretation, elation
                    experienced for no reason, mirages of lips
                              teasing taste to reveal worse-when-worn

          costumes—stage-clothes consuming thunder-heavy
                    trouble in the matinée-mouthed soliloquies
                              of double-douched assholes spitting vagary—

          those dull specimens overestimating the comprehension
                    of their audience, the split-bill worth of their valueless, vapid
                              idiocy; and so, when the mouth-breathing men clear their expense,

          and the biohazardous grips of their knuckles
                    on the ladies’ lampshade hips have been dimmed,
                              humanity reaches up skirts and clicks its peace into their puzzle

          as if rape was an act of charity and giving a fuck
                    was an admirable bit of tragedy strategically spent
                              to make martyrs of the crowds eating it up—

          brunch at the brothel never tasted so insolent
                    as when, off their diet, pathetic publics came
                              to taste, and only after ravaging, its innocence went;

          it was then that a vagrant will, freed on early release, indulged in spurious
                    obscenity, bleeding expletive bulge as it undid its belt to bend
                              over bruised knees its glutton’s bounty, and fed on starved curiosity.


Love dwells not in our will, but in our shell, shocking us to open it, all clammed up, and sleeping, pearl-white and seething to be unzipped, since just a rip can tear time, that crimson silk often aligned with Fascists.

Hard sells such as this shame the myth of optimism, that love is not an equal opportunity; not enough can be said, for it would never be heard, no matter how loud, that love lives in its own immunity.

We took a vow of impropriety, my sisters and I, our souls torn like Conclave ballots; thrown low to be sent up high, our charcoaled eyes of spent smoke blackened by a choir of pedophile-pedants-cum-bandits hushing up our wishes desire itself would not let us have, yet we survived.

The unkindled heart is a brassy spark licking at the ears and the eyes like an old flame; temptation in the dark calls to us all, since our collective unrequited cause is our Waste Land.

Unconscious and unconscionable, each solitary soul is a waxen Eliot, a melting cylinder; head-giving, tale-spinning sinner, inventing lies like Edison, weighing sin against its wages for the hell of it.


Until realization spreads its thighs and we leak tears like pussies fisted out of the pound, fish out of the pond, we are opened, sprawling wide like pioneer-whores crossing an untamed frontier.

We are all lonely, we are all pilgrims sentenced to bent-knee penitence here, in some god’s armpit globe, scooped up and thrown out, wanting what our threadbare being—this piss-pail echoing joke of an existence—cannot afford.

Bison saddled with gaudy particles pass in retinues of dispassionate prejudice; assessing our perpetual winter as evidence of our unpaved avenue, as if past falls could forever tumble the theoretically colossal capacity of a torn soul to outlive quotation.

To make a statement that even hookers can cognate and contribute sentiment; that even unsolicited opinions can do no more damage than civilization to a virgin continent.

We are human, and love, nude of all its elemental suffering, stripped of its fundamental fire, out-of-doors, bare-chested without any drawers, down to its imperceptible theorem of form, is one atom dwelling in all men and even


                                                        we have them.