If you would like to visualize a text as a network graph, please, use our new open source InfraNodus text network visualization tool.

Textexture is outdated and is not supported any longer. Our new text visualization tool InfraNodus supports English, Russian, German, French and has advanced import, export, sharing, and filtering features: www.infranodus.com

Before You Look at the Plan, Ask Yourself
Who would think of theſe Cells / ſoconſtructed / as tolerable?What means what poſſibilityhas the Priſoner / of eſcapingdiſappointment? Would a phial ofaqua fortis be a ſatisfactory corſe?For the Keeper who ſubordinates /his humanity to this / rigid ſphere?One might almoſt ſay / can rageagainſt the poor be ſo indulgedwithout / oppreſſion of the moſtpolitical / the conſcientious?Who would think of ſuch ſolly ſuchdiſcipline ſuch / neglect? Who wouldpreſent this Priſon as an anſwer / tothe queſtion of cruelty? Is there no libertyin this crowded ſpace but bybeating / the head of the malefactoragainſt the Keeper’s / face?
my bird/my body
the problem with me is thatI’m always crowing, crawlingto another person limbless in ruin, their ashes warm and achy. give me a reflection and I’ll collageit into my pupils, all goldand glittering into the sun. give me love and I’ll suck it down to the nub of my soul,a pipe-bomb heart weighing down my wings. every nest built for two melts like baby fat to the wind, dripping like diamonds in the rough,we worked so hard.yes we worked so hardbut I didn’t realize that we were both vultures.
Vapor Trail
This is the one where I try to polish the moon with an electronic toothbrush. Its honey is an illusion but you don’t tell me that. This is the one where I try to put away my hands, planting them into starched pockets or hair that doesn’t screech when I chew it. I shouldn’t try to get rid of body parts but you don’t tell me that. This is one where I am clawing into a vacant lot, searching for a soul that could be mine. It feints before punching me in the face, telling me to get a hold of myself but you don’t tell me that. This is the one where I’m picking tart airplanes out of clouds, and they cave in your mouth but you don’t tell me that. This is the one where I was snapping crab legs at the beach, and giving them to you to roast, but my acid reflex is your brain and damn, I hate crab.
Camping Tent pegs line themselves like teethinto the waiting earth. Here,due to time and rain, the earthaccepts invasion easily, separatesfrom itself easily.The canvas zippers when touched.No names are inscribed here.No roof between me and the knife.I resist such accommodationsand they resist my touch and the touch of clouds.Purity has no place in this wasteland.The horizon—like an average—wavers in the distance, as I plan my escape back to four plain wallsan immediate sanity.In such vastness the mind shrinksaway. And, with such vastnessin mind, we unroll.
Deconstruction VI
What magic it isto be a blossoming sun—a perfect universe of glass & snow, floating barefootin the water – your skin, riddled no more with scars—to hold diamonds in your hands like forgiveness, to sit quietlynext to the night. Bruised, but not broken. Surgingwith new strength.
The Poet’s Ancient Cursor
The sunny streets are not set in the current time.They are time-lapsed, so that the neighbor swinging a golf club on his fake grass is doing so ten years before—my computer is poised to ram itself through the window,a cord awaits to be pulled out of its socket, the wholetrailing mess sucked toward the end of the Solar System.There, a camera records the entire episode, a bomb disposal robotwill inspect the landing site in about three hundred yearsbefore a troop of scientist explorers excavate the site.They will find a hole emitting a noxious gas. And finally,the screen, at which time they will give each other a thumbs up.The keyboard next, followed by the rest of the cords,the power strip, nestled together like a nest of rattlesnakes.Most of the apparatus will be useless, just a shell, each componenta mashed, misshapen mass buried ten feet from the surface.But it will be enough to learn about this time, enough to studythe habits of a poet from the early twenty-first century,as a fragment of the hard drive was restored and rebooted,much to the delight of the explorers who brought it back.They will find poems written in a cartoonish font, on a filelabeled JUST FOR FUN. Other poems in the file: READY.The rest of the stuff will be made up of financial PDFs,assorted JPEGs. The pics unrecoverable, their download impossible.They will study these artifacts for a long time, each poema time capsule, each phrase, each line, another insight.They will wonder how the computer reached the endof the Solar System, they will ponder how it suddenlybecame propelled that far, and how it possibly survived.And at night, after the scientists turn off their sensors,they will be amazed by the one remaining blinking cursorin the center of the screen—at first they thought it was a chip or fleck of radioactive material—then they saw it blink.And it never stopped. This is where we are today.

Sexiness at this age is a heavy log thrown upon the big screen. It’sdigital ignition. Radiant specter of desire. Bodies like menu tabs. Clickme up here. Click you down there. Seduction reads in LCD. Bedroom eyeof the dying ember.Passion, an element continuously looping limbs to unmade sheets. We are all yearning furnaces. Wrapped heartsaround crossed moods and bad knees. Love, a four-cornered word. A billion orange pixels burning up HD flames.

My Husband Grows a Rose Hybrid with No Thorns
I am obsessed By white noise. It’s normally MormonsAt our door. On Saturday afternoon The neighbors mow In formation. Engines Striking up: One. Then one other. Then more. Buzz Droning like gnats You can’t catch. The kind hatched Around the bananas All gone bad Before you can Eat them. Once I watched the Woman next door Pressure blast wash An oil spot On her driveway For two hours.

Affecting Phenomena
I. ReflectionWe’re defying physics because:the angle at which electromagnetic wavesare cast on a surface equalsthe angle at which they bounce back,→/ = ←/
but shorter wavelengths bend or reflect very little traveling on a line of sight.So maybe we’re never close enough to one another for it to work.II. DiffractionToo many obstacles.Interference. Clashing wavelengths.What is the frequency of love, after all?A growl you make meandering, waking.A squeal—my heart—putting on the brakes.Something in between?III. AbsorptionI take you up, take you in.My energy becomes your energy.&Maybe we’ll collapse soonlike dying stars.IV. PolarizationWe’re molecules oscillating:Single. Linear. Circular. Elliptical. Clockwise. Counter clockwise.Reaching in different directions.V. ScatteringThe truth:Particle-particle collision betweenatoms, electrons, photons, our hearts... / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..--. --- - / . -. --- ..- --. .... .-.-.-Reflected angles diffused,forced to deviate from our original trajectory.Always to be apart.

The Barker
When offices close for the dayand students file out the school gates,the barker stakes out her piece of the sidewalk—a corner in Quezon Avenue—and starts calling everyoneto ride her jeepneys.This is her living: she beckons every jeepney that passes to stop by her sidewalk. She would herd passengers for mere pittance; but that would feed the husband and the children next day.And all this time, she is sharp and wary of a man hiding behind the lamp post, another barker, waiting to take her place if she as much as leaves the sidewalk for a while to rest or pee; and the policeman who doesn’t like herstalling the traffic.She has fought for this little corner in Quezon Avenue.

from Good Horse

My body is burning. I do not have a house. Because I am a horse, I am aglow with feeling all the time.My body is burning. I am the reincarnation of Walt Whitman and I am on fire. I eat Aristotle’s universe constantly, and I will not take no for an answer. I am a very good horse. I am also a very good man.*Before I was a man, I was a girl. Someone on TV once wondered in a game show, “Is a girl really a man? How do boys become boys? How do boys become men?” Did you know that I love Friedrich Nietzsche?Friedrich Nietzsche was a very tall man, and he used to eat of the sun on all his holidays, including when he was in his cage. I love cages. I am a bird in a cage. I am such a good horse that my bitterest pill cannot keep me from burning in my cage. I already told you, I do not have a house.*I sometimes read about hope and think, “What can I hope for?” Am I allowed to hope? It’s all like a big fight, me and the other horses. Sometimes we kick at each other in our sleep and eat donuts. Other times, we play with fire and eat fire with the dragons that used to be part of our dreams. We are always dreaming, we horses. That’s okay, though, because I am a good horse. And I live in a very narrow world.


Before I set myself on fire, I usually do a little dance. I twist and turn all over the place, because I am a good horse. If you knew my innermost intestines, you would love me. I am so sweet and I like to chew gum.It’s okay if you don’t understand me, really. I am the sweetest horse you have never met, and I plan on staying that way. I am so good, really. I have never done anything to hurt anyone. I love reading about the Buddha and the way people can forget about turtles and things like that. I am so fixed in these thoughts that my life is beautiful all the time, and I never feel anything but the positive things. I am a good horse.*I have never loved anyone more than I love other horses. Horses are the best. They are so good.Everyone I know is a good horse, but I live in a small box.Everyone I ever see is made of ghosts, but I am a good horse. And I do not have a house.*I’ve been a girl, I’ve been a boy or two, and I’ve been a good horse. I think I should probably stop growing and developing into my highest being. But just try to stop me!


I am such a good horse that I just know the revolution will come. It will come in my mouth.I will eat of the fruits of the naked trees. I never wear clothes. That’s how good of a horse I am.*Perhaps my horseness troubles my audience. I love to trouble my audience. I am only interested in causing other people trouble. That’s my horseness at its finest, shining through, making my audience think that I am the greatest performing genius ever to walk the earth, all because I am very very good. I am the best horse, and the other horses, especially the ponies I know, are the cutest things to be friends with me. I only love to read poems about the Buddha, play games with people, and I especially love chess. I am such a good horse, that I am burning with fever.


My horseness troubles my audience because I am full of spirit. I have never not been full of spirit. I like formal things, and I believe the rapture will happen before I die. I will probably, in truth, never die. Some animals have to live forever, and my own failures attest to the fact of the matter. I am so good, that I know that in the future, everyone will have the same color hair as me. My hair is my best quality, and it is glowing all the time in my hometown of New York City. I live with the other horses there, where there is only so much love to go around. I am all love. I believe in not standing up for myself, in making use of other people I meet, and in being honest with the world. I am always angry at everyone who does not believe that the revolution will come in my mouth. The revolution comes in my mouth like music. That’s what makes me a man.*Before I was a horse, I was a kite. See you later, bye bye! It was great being a kite. I flew to the moon as a kite, and the class war was raged with me at its helm. I don’t really believe in anything but my horseness. I am always horsing around. I think being serious is for the other people in the world, and I don’t really care about anything. Did I mention I am blind?


As a horse, I build everything, and I never take anything apart. That’s what good men do! I am always getting my marching orders, and I repeat everything at least a few times. That’s what good men do! If you’ve ever known a good soldier, you have known me. I am not just one soldier, I am many soldiers. I am going to take over the world with my strength. That’s what makes me a good horse, and the perfect incarnation of beauty and love, as radiant as a star in the bright morning sky.


I am a horse, and I am also a balloon. My gifts are many. I receive my gifts from the sky. Everyone knows me, because I am a great performer. I do not have a house.*Every day I wake up among the animals. I eat the animals’ food. I become the living animals. I am so alive that I have nothing to fear. Because of this, I have no friends. No one loves a good horse. But I’ll show them!*I am a horse, but I am also a process. My process is very deep. I go so deep that I can’t come up for air. Do you see the night sky? I love museums, too. Museums are the best horses, and I am a mirror for them. I pretend that museums are where my lovers are. I have no body. I am all spirit. I never eat. I only eat air.*I never wear clothes, and when I do wear clothes, I don’t wear pants. Pants? Who needs them? I prefer to wear the best of clothes when I can. It seems important that a good horse should have a fine collection of linen things to wear. I don’t need money for these things. I am a horse, and I am also a klepto. I like to borrow and take. I never return favors. I am a very good horse.


Because I am a horse, I am drowning in meaning. I am also a happy drinker. Why not drink a twelve-pack of beer all by myself? It will only make me a better horse. There’s no reason not to do things just because people in authority say they’re wrong, right? It’s better to be a good horse than to obey the law. So onward horses! May you never fall down!*Because I am a good horse, I often march around, getting my marching orders from anyone who asks me to jump. How high? I say. How high do you want me to jump? It’s important to be the kind of horse who is able to follow ALL orders from renegades. I’ve always been an outlaw, and I love America so much it hurts. I think I am going to crawl into a foxhole and just keep loving America even more and more every day, and remember, there will be no darkness.


Because I am a horse, I wear many rings. I am a ring. I am a ring of fire. I am always wearing the same ring that my lovers gave to me. Did you know I have a blog? Sometimes I like to wear my blog like a rose. I eat my lovers for dinner at times, too. I am a horse, a good horse. No one will ever fine me where I hide. I am a lonely horse, but I promise that I will never give in.*All horses love music. Sometimes, I play my guitar by myself: air guitar! I call it. Someone once said that I look like a moldy peach. I love being a moldy peach. It is the most satisfying appearance I can think of. I do not really have an appearance, though. Sometimes, I wear underwear to the mall. Someone could call me a good horse in person! It is so exciting. I hope you will be part of my long journey.


Because I am a good horse, I have never been anything in my life. I like to sit beside a field with my lovers, full of hair and light. I believe in the Buddha. The Buddha is my best friend, and I have a lot of knowledge to prove it. Even though I have a lot of knowledge, my hair is on fire, and my insides are on fire, too. Does this make my audience think that I am silly and foolish? I doubt it!


Because I am a good horse, I am looking for gold. Every day, I am digging for the dollar. I say to my soldier friends, “Look! We struck oil!” A good horse never has a dull day. I know this because I do not have a house. I also do not have a car. It’s all beautiful when the revolution comes in my mouth. Did I mention my shining mane? My other ponies are so happy to see me. They are all named Jessica. My other ponies are the most beautiful things in the world. They are all named Gladys and Agnes, too. There are many feminine ponies but also masculine ponies. All ponies want is to be good. All ponies want is to evade. I ran away with Bob Dylan in every dream I had of Agnes, but she never appeared. I am such a good horse that I hate everything.

Politics, Like Sardines
Politics, like sardines, pool specialized insights, Determine which variety of means can facilitateFirst parenting, then retirement, finally movingTo places like Philadelphia, where clerks force Paperwork habits to sit up and take notice.Further, places of diplomatic goings on, castles, Dungeons, embassies, seek germane domiciles, Maybe gingerbread houses, Romanian zip codes, Persist in refashioning salubrious habits, in detailed Explorations of established employees' depravities.Thereafter, recognizable, highly desirable photos, Thumbnail-sized, signifying choice bookshop goods,Perhaps affable character traits, provide reasons, solicitSecurity urgencies, put health issues in perspective, Shaming toward obedience truculent others’ drageoirs.We would not exist, not function while subsisting, if,Repeatedly, we forgot “much thanks” or “please, Dear.” Nonetheless, speculative fiction’s success cases kowtow Toward recondite knowledge, sell hundreds of thousands Promotional notations based on toilet graffiti plus scat.Reflecting on starry wonder felt when conceptual thriftAgitates, contextualized by abundant adipose tissue,Strange blood sugar numbers, perhaps wide-rangingMercenaries, grants puckish lambs and circus clowns,Alike, rights to fetid farragoes and brunoised ideas.Consider that the costuming of profound thoughtsAs well as insights into fiduciary invasions, remains Little help when pushed into full-time exploration,Babysitting violent others, training Andalusian horses,Or removing thorns from juvenile wombats’ paw pads.

They come to me half done. I pierce the tender fissure where their thighs join their bodies; juices don’t run clear,instead, anhydrous ammonia, propane, characters from Grand Theft Auto San Andreas bleeding the listless gray of the Grapevine sky. It pours out thick as gravy made from a roux I don’t quite understandthen thin as ice melting at the bottom of my gin and tonic I swirl. Its legs wash up in a cosine wave, so I remember hating school, a succession of awful days dingy T-shirts hung by clothes pins along a line to dry, sun trying hard to bleach out Rorschach blot armpit stains. Teachers spoke; all the while milky heaven curdled. Everything I ever really said was inside, a mesentery holding my shape and is.



NOTICE: Please, use our new open source text network visualization and analysis tool InfraNodus. Textexture is no longer supported.
Nodes (Words): 99, Edges (Co-Occurrences): 503. Download processed GEXF file.

Most influential keywords in this text:
horse    good    love    time    filter: off

Most influential contexts in this text:
#0:   horse    good    love    thing    filter: off
#1:   time    eat    line    fire    filter: off
#2:   poem    play    people    game    filter: off
#3:   back    sit    night    angle    filter: off


Link to this page:

Embed this graph:

Note: This embedded graph can be viewed by everyone when it's public: