out in the ghaZalespheRe

i hope to be healthy, wealthy and wise
and gentle… somehow gentle too


O my America, 1000 new perfumes
same stench. vomit in your shoes


yesterday—warm. last night—blank. today—waiting
the sky wrapped as a pharaoh of plundered grave


clocks keep their faces and hands behind glass
before that there had been too many robberies


she said, “they made fun of me”
“death,” he said, “does make us feel stupid”


the moon is too primitive a paradise for wind
Baudrillard will never always have died