your crappy dead poetry machine your contemplative dead poetry machine
your divine divination poetry machine
hand held poetry machine
tongue licker poetry machine
death box

i feast on your flesh

inspeech signals equality divulges a basin
wrappedin flowery lace curtains divulges a window
peering hands on the glass and morning cool breath
we make hearts on the way to work
kiss unto the air our dreams and let go

the fantasy life that lives on when we step out in the morning air to exchange seats
rips out of our embrace like wildfire smoke up into the cosmos
the reality life we return to
could be a wet coffee stained car seat

i go home and pull my morning dress above my head throw it to the ground. drink more coffee. fall asleep

in dreams i follow jobs of work-destiny
jobs like mountains
work like ice cream
opportunities like cash flow-berries out my fingertips
growing trees worth of values into the soil underneath trees that already are grown

waking up to no one i realize that in a way no one but me was ever there

i'm not going home i'm there

it's me there in bed naked alone my home
my gaze out the window seeing brief images of strangers, bars of legs crossing by, hiding from me their whole

work with fingertips
they say it's not work
my job inside my body
i gave to myself

racehorses die each year to save lives from
being without racehorses

the commodity i serve as a body
i die alone

then i get out of bed, throwing the covers off in a flurry and run naked to bathroom
to sit and ponder on the best of thrones made for such muttering
my skin belches forward and swells with the discovery of my eyes, how tender flesh i am
to serve

a life of service my eyes crossed the lovers bent over

my stomach bellows in the morning wind a half-mast flag rises overhead

a twitch awakens a voice
a bell from my bosom

i go a'wandering in a crowd of no ones not anyones no hows and follies
feather-leaves fall in colors

"you haven't changed in years! what point is it to love you?!"

colors stale and bright, not new england brightness, a mixture of sad atlantic ocean duff and happy green north west ever-growth

"you haven't ever changed and i have."

how can you not work?
what could work with fingertips be?
if it is non-work, non-commodified, not even nearly a body
from which your value is devised

in response, "but i am happy with my opportunities."
i am happy with my work
i feast on money signs
i feast on your flesh.