That Our Faces Which

Silent whispers and hushed cries. She said it might start. There is no sharing there; there is no saving. Out here where grass grows ((where it shouldn't) the car lot) and where hand writing cannot be written. The plow finds its mark. The seed that needs and the plots to stop. Out here; frozen from the breeze of a lake that thinks itself an ocean. Out there where the growing occurs. There are no edits here, only a canister of man: an object that feels itself used for painting purposes. The great tumble of pen on silent paper; a phone that rings, a sign that knows itself an icon. Devoid of ink this grass grows as a switch impacts an ass. Still; frozen, it seeps into the pores: a room too small, too cold; reaches are now not nouns. Verbs no longer act: this is contemporary art. That which knows itself for more than it is because it says so in the script. Eaten like this, the grass is still; growing on pavement rocks; men have made both: symbols of their whispers, icons of their cries. Those silent faceless tears are no longer upon faces but upon contracts. Agreements designed to fulfill that which is thought to be necessary. Out here------->

--------------------------> We Are Out!! AND

We ARE Here. ____________________ .

Lines are drawn in the grass by pavement and its concrete neighbors. On each side are silent problems and signatures (initials

here

and

here

).

Out is the place to be.

Here is never impossible.

We can be the true,

The spoken.

We can be the narrator.

Out here.

Or Where there

be a story on top of a building made of pavement, banana peels and dust/soot from those silent faces/contracts.

There is a star for each of us out here.

This is not a poem manifested or a poetic manifesto.

This is a contract

and I have signed it (initials

“But where does it all come from?” I heard the mime in the back of the room read from the note cards handed out before the lecture. Only the mime deserves quotations marks around its verbal utterances. It all comes from here. That unimagined place where men are not men and women are not women: where we are children, simply. here

Out here the story scrapes the sky. There are no longer impenetrable phalli that touch the sky's breast. There are only inevitable invitations to contracts that are faces which weep harmonious tears along the sides of cheeks that have never felt this cold, sharp blade of grass.

and here).