all history is my history

"love is not what you think it is,
the slow slip into a grave
as you shove your dicks through holes in the coffin
and remark how right, this feeling of death.
you will someday shake with the truth
that we were always
more than we knew.
all of us and the women too,
miracles already with room to grow
if granted the freedom from material
of inelastic depth
like these pitiful hearts with which you go forth
in modern darkness"

a man in the vicinity
of my non-directional dialogue
extends to me one of his dollars.
i stand in his front
looking
to see if he understands me.
it is doubtful and I sense we both know it
and this is why man needs the dollar.
i tell him to keep it
it is his heart and love to give to another
woman or man that does not know
the infinite ways we constantly relate.
they are the sums of all
that they have failed to notice
as unique in each other.

the man who builds bridges
and crosses them alone
is richer than this man,
who touts the virtues of paper companions
and the places they take him.
on his face is man's story
"born by request. rejects death.
can't conquer space but lives in a vacuum"
his chauffeur pulls to the curb
at the wheel of a hearse,
the passenger slumps into his box
dead to his own possibility but so many holes
for him now to begin fucking,
each a virgin of his creation.

these are the days his armor loosens
and his dogmatic heart shows through the cracks
how life is amiss on this planet.
he is lost
but replaced by the sons he trained to
internalize him.
death cannot clean us fast enough
all by itself.
life must spread through everyone
engaged in full sensory reformation
thickened by bursting volcano and
change in wind patterns
the earth speaks out against killers
and torturers, says "eat or be eaten".
it spits turbulence at the chairs
in which they once took positions.

this is our great change
dark in way and mean
but lit by truth in ending
that we were always
more than we knew and
less alone than we felt.