Jacky (it’s me in the parentheticals)
I put up plastic to cover the skeleton of my residence
deconstructed as proof I’m conducting some holy gift between my barriers
dashing my face on the brick limiting external content
and thus having advanced to needing less shelter
with muscles completely intent
I die down into a nice fire for cooking
my better halves of heat and consumption brought together
(my other half is useless beauty which I use to commemorate myself so 150 percentage points I can earn depending on how I feel about me at any given time the same scale goes for roommates or lovers Jacky)
taken with blue flame
I wolf the structure down to its coldest
he weathers well and needs wind they say sucking drawn straws
and my morals are most abstemious when I sleep under gaping heavens
i feel better completely separate from the person I would be in place of where I
ended up
carelessly and purposefully I bed there in the rubble
I watch myself happening my heart beating on in the dark
when my fragility offends my own sensibilities
(love Jacky love!)
I can barely touch myself anymore
so an active dreamlife takes over the lightening of my testes
(in one a woman came down to me from a fire escape and I reluctantly consented sexually but I finished when she said ‘nice out of cavity work’ what do you make of that Jacky)
blood in the balls is semen and through breasts it´s milk
which makes great sense if not for this compulsieve analysis of death
but nothing replaces a hole streaming
i attend no sensitivity that training was forced
(bluffing off the cuffing Jacky)
and I left my best foot forward kicked into a tacked up plywood wall
I built at the end of a sawed off shotgun kind of hall
transport to a place to fill
a radius of shrapnel unconstricted and trailing from point on paper
and i limp away uninjured
energy is energy lets not define it because i´m light motherfucker
overcome and deadened because I see God in every little thing
but profaneness is spunkier and graspable like skin cells in the hand
and i lay up in the nowhere of the pseudopoets
sloughing off my polished pieces into fields of glass
which picked up again slip through my fingers
but take my hands with them
in ribbons excitedly shriveling like silk floss in hot coals
some poems are only about delivering a few lines of poetry
(circling the pit the hearth Jacky)
and I read that some writers only exist to help other writers write a few words
(jumping in burning up Jacky)
and some houses are built only to age in
(coffins over cellars Jacky)
well I’m roaring with slaughter
bellowing clear-headed winds into the veins of my victims
I’m done coming into the air
Doved, released in the culmination of indenture
Flapping bodies restored to wilds they are unprepared to meet
Hands outstretched are launching naming a cloud
The let go is less dramatic a slipping upward
but playful and possibly severe
abandonment guarded out of necessary ritual
and passed off with flying white
we cover our nakedness all too well
lowering it and running toward locked horns
and Thorough said we are the tools of our tools
guided by danger we can’t call death failure
but that intelligence isn’t love
rather the world allows itself a susceptibility
it quivers against us soft water shutting itself noiselessly into another version
our bodies show us
-back and forth movement of writing between Andrew Maples and Jack
