are we responsible to what? for the limits of space, the darkness that expands in the senses, for indeterminate graphs and organs of our lonely circumstances? are we responsible to the sadness that comes in comparing accumulation with a lack of water in a soughing silence? are we responsible for the face of one and a self as a face responsible for the destiny of destiny?

or is it the ever expanding errancy, measureless in the word, born of the word, along for the ride in the word, with the question, can we have a question? can we be responsible for the limts of space, those vainly tired sounds of solitude, a lack of brimming life boiled over at the smell of emptiness, in an over determined definition of responsible?

is this the choirs that sings to us in the dim sadness of numbers in the state of naming for the sake of the state of naming, in a state of numbers? are we nothing more than a state of numbers naming a name in our dim state of numbness?

does it repeat ad infinitum? are we responsible for who what and when, plumes if smoke in the distance, helicopter gun ships, and army of heterosexually in the name of god and country?

can I have a brick back, pass the peas standing for the security if one in the burden of one in a universe of compromise?

if the body is undermined, animals turned to san serif figurines, what will counter balance the absences of sun? what will be responsible for words without meaning in an obscure world expanding in a ever expanding wound repeating itself in words?

what is beyond the formless figure between the the ice and eyes of fear? what is between the formless substance and non-substance of luminous flesh, making it radiant in the glory and grace in an instant?

where is the present beyond the self in an instance of being the face of the other out side the self in the heart dialogue of what more can I do? what is necessary for nothing to exist in everything? what more can I do? what are the limits of space?

can I speak of myself if there is nothing to say, exposed to another without a substitute, without a make believe promise of intoxication, with nothing other then my flesh next to yours with nothing to say, esposed to the present exposed to you?