WEBVTT

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This is a short poem.

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It's like a prose poem.

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But it uses gaps for--

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a little bit like line breaks,
but they're not line breaks.

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"Tiding."

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Payphone, mouthpiece,
speckles, called the alive boy.

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I stand pixelated.

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One-hour processing.

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Three months dead.

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Over and over the
sound gap and failure.

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Easy to see lapses on shore,
looking at drifting constructs.

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All of us little
cases scampering

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after false constructs.

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My latest emergency
has no valor.

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My personal whatever is not
social witness, not political,

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could stay undeveloped in a
party-time throwaway camera.

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Pointed.

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Shot himself.

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Whoops.

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My late comfort smiling
exactly to me, his paparazzi.

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His smile I induced.

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Whoever did care
about the speaker?

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Secretly, the avant-garde did.

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Other photos are
in the vocative.

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All others are locators.

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The personal epiphany,
a petit mort.

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I read Christine's
poem of echolocation.

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Faces a face.

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Face.

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Faces.

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If I tell the alive boy how the
dead boy gripped my shoulder,

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looking to my demise
rather than the meteor--

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might feel unlost.

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Live wire's voice wants
to know why I do this.

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I am talking as a bat
navigates, not to hear myself,

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but to know where I am.

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Energy is usually flung
with selfish boomerang.

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We want it returned.

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Please be kinder.

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Narrative, or
language-- all bats,

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longing for backlash, as to
know the direction of our faces.

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If the dead are sound
waves, something fronts us.