Dan Raphael		"not that kind of river" we’re slimmer    younger    prettier    at legendary crossroads wavering gallant & shiny                             could be tomorrow                            sudden as a pocket the strings in my breath are the streets ive plowed below with neon snorkel two bells,   three meters,   each eye a gauge of volume and intensity refracted like the smoke of rapid growth--calcium frying, neurons ungirdling into moats of lost days when neither sun or moon is watching, on & off ramps intertwined continuum, involuntary escalators inside my 50 story body mince cerulean,    chartreuse,    ultraviolet as the sun changes like fashion in low budget hands                                            i can make this tourniquet sing like a cello or a 3 legged introvert pressed against the sill-less windows smeared with the footprints of the hurried, harried and honey-dipped shadows of this monsoon city with colorful scarves flying from the faucets, light bulbs long eaten, streets wet with anticipation a dozens of us dance the street, lightly across cars not alarming, im an airbag of love, a cupholder of understanding, see how my eyes show you where to turn, we go where we’re pulled, arriving at an empty lot in a future suburb, six trees like guitar strings amplified by blind relentless woodpeckers drilling away the cavities where pestilence simmers like bread dough eager to be punched into itself, studying  the worlds we exhale every day, unable to watch what we ruffle and rend, the microns of flesh we trade with every step inaccessible without a torch and several passwords from liquid movies we swoon into a choreography of masks and vanishing dancers, the street is a river full of genetically engineered water we can breathe and see through, the gills that withered in our wombs cauliflower open like the new green sun rising in the south		"Swimming in the Streets"                   “she was doubled over, like there were two of her, the one           who’d done the running and the one who didn’t know why”                                                         don delillo if the streets had no names could I get home, if I couldn’t count the blocks & curbs sluicing glacial water, downhill ice glistening from a thousand suns,      sun in so many windows                            now the curtains been eaten                pressed between newspapers soaked from the bottom of wastecans                      skin must be peeled,    pores rubbed into powder one of these houses is mine:                         I walk to myself, rumpling like a congery of abandoned clothes when the wind whips when the truck disintegrates        all it carried the driver thought the truck knew where to unload                                           we couldn’t jump that high              my hand wont open like a flower--                   the vein in the middle       sliding in several needles at once across a room of shutters & shattered baths,     hallways with names,    i stand before my reflection does     door made of sky the house spits me onto the street and folds away like an indecisive newspaper  if thumbs had wings to whistle when nipped chewing like beavers gazing at the chunky stream barely lit, refreshingly absent hands go through like gloves shot from guns a time few got far shirt made of someone else’s skin responses to responses folded into the batter poured among bricks: straight waves,   like escalators on their sides,    beached when the city moved,. I wanted to be effervescent but didn’t know how to start I don’t want my property to keep going with a wind rising from my feet      simulating readiness neither hand knows         walking backwards perhaps rising from a paved horizon stopped by something hard throughout my practice is never the same melting in my hand     mouthing frostbite a fly on each side odorless traffic hands clasped like a bell pepper that’s not rain