They who are You who are an I, I who are a You who is They, We

the reassured mumble doesn’t cancel
in the face of advantage for the furniture changes, which
reiterate their birth-mark

the system arrangement cannot un-crucify its cured
plastics, rambling
about the plethora, always
in search of a small mark uncleaned on the counter

initiative that could bring down the whole of their
thought to a point blank loss beneath the staged museum of their
haunted criteria, oozing

with bee sap waxed into the solidified fiber of tree-patch-eyed
Cyclops-winters, whisker-whispering wishes to sideways mirror-effect
before the affect ever takes shape, they

are all on the gourmet memorabilia of a French invented cookie
size of a city in the name of an unmentionable rain-coat that houses too many
look-alike shapes coiled in the assimilation of pizza, they

who are I and the only nestled of a needle-fine finger
points its dig-mark through the skullcap of their sleepless crayon, crying
in the climbs of their throws, I

the we of the they who hear this who reads this who knows
what it is to speak of it, they
who are you, who cannot deny the rapid onslaught of Europe
and the broken hearts of barriers as they reef-wharves of cracked shoals and schools of
delinquent neck-ties closing round the immediacy of squirt bottles, I

the one and only yes as it stands alone amongst a billion reasons not to
admit the fit is wrong, the outfit
too tight around the eyes and squeezes the blood-levels too low, sodium
in the reaches, on the far
distances of the back-stage near exit left, you

who stand there within the I that you are and too whom it is you are a they
outside of this, personal
as it is, somewhere outside of the
gourmet and all hell of what any of they desire, you

who are an I who is a they who is I inseparable, language
is love, untangle


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