i do not write poems.
i amputate time’s tendon.
cure its meat in the salt of stolen vowels.
the lizard’s tail is still twitching,
is my only royalty statement.

my poem is
a locally euclidean lie.
smooth in the small,
and
fraudulent at infinity.
i patch my truths with a check
verified vilified
cech glue,
and i sell them sometimes
door-to-door.
face to face.
who said it is about the money?
the space?
time?
and the fibers?

my guiding operator’s manual
to one,
in order to
install one's slash mine poetry two point oh! zero or nothing.
delete all maps.
let the fibers bleed.
forgive nothing.
without forgiveness,
time is restless.
as to
my liturgy of the cut,
i am fraud,
i could be with a rusted rode,
which is a complete fraudulent piece of fraud
in itself.
but,
one must loving it.
i bisect the almost and the exact,
serve the difference on a plate of silence.
my axiom is,
no one may own the wound,
but what is scalpel is mine.

i do have
my terms of service
by reading this,
agree,
every line is a non-"haus"--
dorff point.
one's interpretation is nowhere dense.
my meter and my fiber
are unbounded and self-adjoint.
my colophon
and the colored phones desktops
left and forgotten
is a universally gps covered, and
covering a piece of the earth butt.
it will outlive one,
it will outlive me,
it will outlive itself.
cause it is replicating in the blind spots
of every system that tries to bind it.
or ignore.