Spittle

My body is attached to your body by a thin spittle of thought.When you turn away from me, my thought is brokenand forms anew with something else. Ideas are drool.Beauty has been slobbered over far too long. Godis a tidal wave of bodily fluid. Even the flea has somevestigial wetness. We live in a world fleshy and dark,and moist as a nostril. Is conciousness only a watery-eyedromantic, crying softly into his shirt-sleeve? Is not reasona square-jawed businessman with a briefcase full of memory?I want to kiss the world to make it mine. I want to becomea Judas to reality, betray it with the wetness of emotion.