by Steve Cuocci
small pieces of light coming together.
if you forget what you’re seeing, just trust the mathematics.
old picture houses with the red curtains dense with lead.
level two programmed reality: both picture and weight.
wittling and tensioning the taut-wire social,
knowing every man in every portrait.
serial numbered blood stains.
lines and lines (the queues) of visitation to dip your plume or splinter off.
light and splashed glitter in cubed galactic fuckmess.
some centuries old astral body generating out its last nitrogen masterpiece,
adapting and suiciding, novasploding in a musty staircase with peeling plasterwalls.
no longer a slave to probability, our agent, no, just a force eloping altogether.
disproving the proof that there is no ether,
cloaked in the guise of protoplasm.
crying eyes of a prostitute in a pig’s arms catches him while she lays hopeless.
careless reverse cowboy; lazy je’taime, prayers and prayers for premature ejaculate
but it never comes.
agent passes namelessly.
the renounced whore and the supernova, one and one.
color as a mathematic act of man’s observation.
otherwise, who’d know better.
off and on practice of a grand piano.
hammer to the tune of minimized bone.
the generalization of men acting illogically
in the presence of their spraying seed,
fathers developing negatives of their sons.
microphones descending on their lives to broadcast individual choices
to a God of Reasoned Audience.
applause and praise to answers from control centers.
canned approval sounds.
a theory of shooting men in self defense,
a definition to slower the distribution of men at war.
a seated theater of roulette enemies, religion of the drawn number.
in the balcony [N, NW] she stares on,
her number branded beneath the butterfly of her breasts,
her nakedness pure carnal and digital definition, a three pieced numeral,
her pure socratic formula to be extracted
by some earnest, inquisitive robin of a boy
who she will refuse and refuse until he turns away from her, defeated.
warded off by venetian masks.
silhouette fades as the police approach
while she complains of the haste of lust and the death of sensuality.
against the image of baton movement, she laments the piercing of his lightness.
with tender orbitals, she softens her vision on him, wipes out his entire race,
patterns of relief of all the sweetness he’s ignored.
a million dead in the city, boarded up or no.