(no subject)

The public has seen this vision for decades—another hopeless dreamer’s space fantasy. But here there’s a difference: Bigelow is betting $500 million of his personal fortune that he can make it come true.

It's happening, at last. Commerce sees the necessity of living in space, and is willing to help make it happen. Looking at those pods I think of William Gibson/Bruce Sterling's "Red Star, Winter Orbit." O earth, farewell! We're crawling out on rays of light, climbing into heaven Farewell! Farewell!

turtles! everywhere their slow pace alters me!

There were birds, bitter wings careening against me (and the boys and one dangling body and one bite amid the great events). I stood alive; he--the wire ignored by his sweet eye-- hid with me, we broke together and fell into piles, barely-lewd thrusts in rusting heaps, bags of hay and dirt littered the ground at our feet.

We bent toward the horizon, watched astronauts risen whole, themselves tiny moons.

She filled the gulf between with mouthed dream particles, with stretches, moments against me. O we make more in utterances, "You alive but cold," than we ever did in touching. He, like the limbs of starflight, bursts of flame, silent contrails, impossible flight, looking amid the events as if seconds were trenches into which they poured our dead.

I squinted then in the light upon the dam, hungry for the black water, for more power, And then just remnants, a few into each ear, oscillations at mirrors, dark weeks months coffee mouth every atom shook.

"Ah! half cannot deny anyone-- all these, they make you cold cold"

She like burst limbs launched upon the bottom of the valley, the north wall, electrified by her eyes until it was like unto the sun. And if activity scaled the westward pieces, overgrown with great fronds, pushed back by the wind like a hand against a lover's kissing mouth denied. The valley then turns into an embrace of gold, riots of flowers. Bodegas hovered above this, shocked white stucco pinned down by the sun. No violence, neither anything willed nor confidential, prices like women's thighs, like a dropped stone.

She was orange, in her mouth. Great clouds of diesel smoke wrote across my memories of her. The Third Person traipsed away from me, down the Learned Highway to her, murmured mixed up nonsense, lyrics from lost songs invented and forgotten in the singing of them "a muzzle of bees/My sleeves have pushed/some say they're in between/I don't think they're in between/ the breeze blown through/On your machine/I'm assuming you are news"

We are all lightning and we branch, our skin fluid, but longing, longing! Everything spins, there are green leaves whirling at the clocks, actresses cowling, crossed moments concealing me. O! Pour me endlessly, unite me with them again! Make day a smudge, black grease on glass. I'm left imagining. I assented our beloved borderlands, forgotten in the Markets of the Dead. Food for the bowels of a City. O my beloved, I thought in light skimmed right off the surface of my skin, the liquor of sleep injected between the joints. What does he plan for a gift, what do we devour at the entrance of the vast steel culvert, our memories yet to be marred like the boys. I mourned a sound of echoed feet running on steel, forgotten with a kind of mad joy when our night together dissolved in a cup, a hum of thrusting groins.

The songs back again, never louder than a promise at her ear, "God lifts/ hums, your spine starts to shine/And you and I are climbing/we punch our holes in so much less/fall upward into the scattered broken sky/"

Until down on me, O City, your green life will crash at last and in your barrenness my mindfull of wishes and heartbeats, butterflies, the great release of air, simply turns around--

Metanoia! Yes! Given a timeline, we determined to caress the contours of the Market and name each forgotten woman in it, every sudden vision spawned there, all the gripping hands and questioning mouths and recruit... at least one other. Yes. I imagine my mouth on each of theirs in turn, warm and slick. "River river river have mercy," oh.


Kiki's voice then, resurrecting him to me, "I smell them out there making their moves, settling their dry pale fingers over my spoon and dropper."

"his goal in a Question
Paid (careening clock a know in heads in of against me,
I alive the him, thrust as face jutted
thin in they east-west
littered rusting terminated beyond of
07-06 09:13:00
Current music:
So him a name.
Other:or How I Finally Recognized to Love the Balm"


She come unstitched, then, didn't get no laughter from them dogs. They get us so frightened, done torn down our fence, climbed into our highest tree. She got em up there so quietly, then back down again, finally. And y'all know what that means. There is mornin we come out with our tongues clenched so much more than just them clouds, them atoms. We are all mornin, all glancing at the light, and them broke down mirrors. We know that last week you held him in your mouth and imagined you was a cold gulf of empty space, ever distance between you gone and wrecked right out in the sun.

The heads of the others, distorted into slender finality. I cannot enter the reflection in front of this exchange, this plan to unravel the City, leave the bridges and set at the heart a golden tapeworm to gnaw up all the flowing commerce. I realized: a lithe step into it , a touch of my craven tongue, curled to sup the world. O warm neck, O smoke curling over your top lip—until my body pulsed again in his hands, a feeling like unforgettable emptying of my coinpurse, my accounts spent in a rush. For her?

The young boys stand at their futures unwritten. They grip pistols, rifles, like wind in high tension wires. They walk forward so slowly but their faces, moving toward adventure, are all smiles.

"Water footsteps/A fist so clear can see/For yourself/If you don't believe me/There's my pulse again/And morning fading to your trees/Your memory, our skins, eyes like bricks/The burst of raw sex out in ripples upon my entire body/"

Lost! Lost we decided to map it, and see through to the meadows, the hungry places and their favorite goddess-manchild, whom we'd loved for


"I can feel the heat feeling up their devil doll stool pigeons, crooning on every thing we could kill."

I smiled at myself in the mirrors, confirming my notion. She nodded over my shoulder. We knew we'd need to look harder: amid diesel and wire, eyes and muzzle, sun and longing, the lounging actresses poised at the tips of their toes, lips opening.

Ask, world, and warm me slowly with your meadows.

"It's at memory, faces, pulse tapping, that's where I want it."

"It's right, close in on me so I cannot be lost!"

[pause. a thousand days pass]

We'd also snapped at the wires of memory, of echo, of meadows beneath the sun. We proclaimed in great sure utterances, willed decided things, life things. High-pitched wind rode over my body. I lost the hand closing on our eyes, the mouth coming to my mouth. Just lost it in the high bright noonday sun, because I couldn't stop lying to my lovers, couldn't tell truth to my friends and instead shaded it with things I thought were good. I lathered on the similes and metaphors like lubricants to make my words slip through, penetrate their trusts smoothly. Yes, just like that. I know the ache of hiding my heart from the eyes of my nearest best most beloved, the storm of futures like falling cards flung into a gale. I wish to speak in less than this coded talk, to unveil my liar's heart, my false bones. I want to gut my hypocrisy and lay it out to steam in the cold clinical air. No, nothing like that. But I crave a filling of the spaces between us.

There's warm hands, smoke that stands in the lowlands, and voices melting together to toast their best intentions. We were lost, dancing or making love entire nights, nights on end. Also we'd scrabble at each other's skin, we left a feeling like smoke on our feet. It's almost gone, the fists at your soul, the pulse of memory in our palms. Lost! Lost! We do the job right, ascribe every suspected smile and inventory the lot, but it's not enough to dampen the echoes.

I suspect they don't believe you. We'd decided to walk, grip, kill, surface from the deep. But none of it mapped the sons we longed for, the future we spent like so much ejaculate on the packed ground. None of these actions described what we were really after- the life in our memories, the fade of our desires into artifice.

Ask me. I tuned to feel the clean pistols, the wired world of her bright vision. Ask me, i begged then. I wanted to heat her up again, to tickle her with my words, bind her with my face like stone.

almost done now i know he's thinking. kill them in our eyes, work loose their favorite teeth, their most loved dolls. i croon, pine over your seed, your memory of events to come, your thick lust for nostalgia, elegy in each orgasm.

I'm tired, she whispered, sharp like a cool drink. Tired of unwritten notions, and these deviled divisions between us, our sexes like wingless birds, bruised angels. Please, put your skin to my lips, let me handle your future with my mouth. Stop moving so slowly, just this once, so I can see you.

Ah mantis, lover with spines, doublejointed rifle shot of yesterday! Take me here, pin me to the hard bark of the trees and don't let me go until I exhale against your ear all my promises.

My love is a horse that shivers when the saddle is lifted from her back. She is an unwritten thought, gripped between inkwell and paper. She dangles above the page and no drops shake free.

"Lightly seize me/won't you believe me/Put the trees before my eyes and exhale me/My favorite whom I loved?"