one doesn't separate his magnetic poetry. just factory-fresh blocks of words on his refrigerator door. he lights up a joint on the couch and watchesthe game show network on t.v.
two has a dentistschool girlfriend but at the moment lady x has a hand pushing up into his crotch over his jeans and he's smiling into some falling hair. in a chair with breath getting closer, and skinwarmth, and perfume, thighs coarsing beneath the sea, tropical tropical juggernauts with its islanders rebelling.
three clutches the chainlink fence that lines the interstate and holds up his recorder to get the sound of whirring manufacturing plant equipment one-half mile away.
four cries after masturbating. he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling but never ever counts patterns.
five was never happy with his place in the world and he's not gonna pretend to be now, in his one holy moment.