Through the only eye that he can move himself
he looks at the wall clock.
Looking a long time is staring.
Yep.
With one side asleep.
God believes in the morning and the morning believes in him
so he still believes in God.
Morning is beautiful.
He talks to himself.
The round band-aid slips underneath the bed from his hand.
With the only arm that he can move himself
he flaps his arm trying to grab it.
Tennis balls roll all the way home
and get cuts in the shape of crosses.
Six dining room chairs.
Four legs a piece.
Twenty-four tennis balls in total.
There’s a nine-year-old autistic boy
who sticks the balls on and pulls the balls off the chair legs.
In the evening he grows a new white beard on his chin.
With the only foot that he can move
he kicks the blanket but it doesn’t fall off.
It’s stuck.
Hey hat. Bye hat.
The hat in the air hasn’t found its face yet.
Snow
heavy and waiting with pouting lips.
Snow falls
all night like it’s some kind of a big deal.
Snow gets bigger in the cold, snow grows on the
snow stuck on the window panes.
Daybreak shaking the white bed sheets after pulling them out of a cabinet.
Who is it?
I heard it could only be a mask with a long arm
that can close that eye.

(with the same rhythm under the same sky 2)


I don’t put the things I like in order.
I’ve come far counting the numbers I know.
Even if it’s not a mistake if you hate me
it might be a crime to forget you.
I’m just going to say it
To speak is the faint desire to show something.
In which book did I copy down this quote by Jacques Roubaud?
Not understanding French, acting vainly is
an evening of adaptation resisting resistance.
A night of cruising antagonising an antagonism.
I can go without speaking for some time.
I don’t have depth. I have width.
I’m a good size to shiver wildly while wandering the forest.
Big world not pig herd.
Star power not wallflower.
Losing the way and getting scared
people call me over and I wander.
The living room light that I looked through the window at was bright and
dancing singers on a T.V filled the whole wall.
You are only in front of the dancers you watch and
I am only beside you watching the dancers.
The ears of only-in-the-front you.
Your habit of pulling your bob hair behind your ears.
What country is this song from?
Even if the ears of only-beside-you me
are there, the song is not for my listening.
Over there you
in the past, not ever following the dancing with a dance
you who disappeared out of me
over there you
lift your heels up a little
and because you press your face to the glass
I scratch.
A big nail stolen from the hardware store said
why don’t you bring the hammer down and smash.
Fucking coward bitch.
Bitches like you are the worst.
Even though I know it
is breaking courageous?
Is the broken thing a relationship?
Black beans or sweet dreams?
The stars in your sky are beautiful and sparkly.
My obvious ornamentation is like diary entries written for others to read.
When I write on the window that nonexistent stars are stars that exist
above my head is one fallen star and that star
is the lit cigarette now ready to be smoked.
Let’s see how far you burn before you get burned.
I tried to let it be
but I couldn’t peel the scab completely off the top of my head and
the dandruff speck grabbed from one hair strand’s end
is fakeness not sadness so
again today to the forest I go and yap.
I wander.

Because her two hands got tied when she put her two hands together, the woman doesn’t pray. Hands, these two hands, how can one hand stroke the other? Arms folded stuck or stuck in a different crack, when you say that the beak that opens naturally is only natural, super-close lovers have to carry at least four 3,500 won 250-milliliter bottles of hydrogen peroxide for rinsing. Even before the woman tries to say ‘babe’ and pours a bottle, the man pulls out his dick. ‘FUCKING WEASEL DICKED SHIT,’ she screams and whenever she goes to a grill to eat she steals the stainless steel tongs for grilling the meat and thinks, these tongs look exactly like the A in Adultery in The Scarlet Letter. The last line of her book report she wrote for homework for her winter break when she was 16, the angle that is made naturally by the two tightrope walker’s legs the second they drop from the rope. When you say the shame you need to survive is the shame you have to bear, the woman receives the reason to spread the foldable steel ladder on the side of the rooftop. When she steps up the steel ladder, the sky is starless. When she descends, the stars gather inside the water that gathered inside the stone bowl. Those stars, 11 or 12 or 13, she tries but can’t pull them out with the tongs, and the only thing left is her face unseen because it’s been smooshed. ‘Don’t cry. It’s going to get erased. Is sadness just talk? People say it’s a waste.’ When is she going to quit being a target for the gun she points at herself? Actually, maybe nothing happened. Who is the hero of cops and robbers? Is it the one who is cuffed or the one doing the cuffing? The script hasn’t been written. Because the skin of her two sweaty hands was scrubbed when she put her two hands together, the woman still doesn’t pray.