sometimes i see silence in your eyes.

i want the shape of your toe,
i want the cheapened glance behind ten dollar glasses,

[she should be he]
and you say he's attractive.

all i can do is write today, all you can do is talk.

my eyes will trace only
the lines of your theories and the pathways of her knowledge.
my mass culture infiltrates the way i speak,
seeps in between the gaps in my teeth, splitting scenes into moments,

strobe lights and the revolution.

your skin is too pale in dim light,
and i want to shut the door and twist my words back to you,
these words that spew in revolving themes, gilt-edged doors in twilight.