we're waiting for confirmation:
something has happened, its movement
already went thru what braces for it.
spun hands over praying mouths--
a finished dark pushed all the way back
& then some, held up to itself.
where a treeline fills in its watchful deepening, as it's pulled downward.
ankle-high smoke comes out with the
audacity of ****, ripped away from
starving fire.
a drawf rolls out of a playing card, to
measure dimensions.
wearing a jester's hat with no bells--
his field of vision gadging his height,
interlocks with curious fear.
tracing around the wickedness that was
recently there.
wind up hares ***** up their ears & fall
on their sides.

the tongue's stethoscopic clacks
in ears, tug at the throat &
against teeth.
not a word.
a rusty lighter's pried scratch--
too thick to spark.
no wind, coincidentally.
still, there is consciousness.
the flight patterns of micro details
touchdown on different but
functional timezones, all in a patch
of pavement.
cars pass & the body remains
unbroken.
the ratio of tinted windows seen
thru, is in simpatico with the end
of a day.
though the edge of the world
deviates to shake me off--i hang
back & stroke a jade lion's tail.

the omni-plumage of the

earth's curvature, is sculpted by

a constant unturning.

which sunbeams pass through--

to stall in perforated mountains.

as if taking tissue samples of gods.

he paused at an intersection--with a
pedestrial roundup at his back.
an orange hand's superhuman staving
power instigated a muted version of:
"Waiting for Godot".
then an orange sleight of hand's
arrhythmical numeric funnel, bumped
into a walking lime figure.
he then turned around as if wrested from
consternation, having thoughtfully
weighed the group dynamic of intimate
friendship.
almost like moonwalking with Nintendo One graphics, he paced their unscripted
diaspora.
blockade-wide arms outalking his mouth as he stated: 'you know what...you guys should go without me.'
what followed was the hammering down
on a crosswalk's piano keys--that melted
into a pending desensitization.

an immediate deadlock--off into one
another, the clear poison of reflections
that see.
as if windows to the inception of
windows, down to square flecks.
the luciferian tableau of mastered
masters falling in hate.
all that can be known is the other--to
expose is to be exposed, thereby
becoming the exposed.
daggers dually plunged, a victoryless
savor.
somewhere there are two mirrors--they
are aware of that, but no longer know
which is which.
rain's silver streak twists glassy skies to
a crooked flash of white.
the surging filth of shadow selves crawl
for privatude, in that hellacious unboxing.
now space itself cannot be the intermediary of opposing mirrors.

oceans converge & breach a single

surface--roll toward me as a globular

bulge comes up to be fed.

the shiny sweat of a vicarious void

slurps as it snarls--chases its own face,

that refuses to wash off.

it is then i fall back on what i truly am--

with a look of acknowledgement.

there's such a buoyancy to what aligns

depth.

the icy reception of fingertips pawed

on a face of intellectual mortification--

more like vacancy at the height of

its powers.

ie, ascriptive energy can be destroyed.

arguably the same as extremities

touching dissolution.

with that--today felt like an accidental

penmark on the back of a canvas.

it is not worth mentioning that today is

not over yet, seven minutes remain for

this contradictory statement.

streetlights stood like counterintuitive
candle snuffers, or surgeons passing
out with their headlights on.
as with that which cannot be named, the
broader sense of any word: wind.
linearly gone, its goneness blew in tandem--as if direction's not to be believed.
with no sound, if it weren't thru things as
they were--yet sound became of wind.
there is no clarifier of these obfuscations,
i myself was held as responsible as the
night.
black hood on, with all the solitariness of
of a walk wandering into something far
more in its element by extension.
coldly slumped over, leaves ripped away
from, then to--(disambiguation)?
not quite.

albification comes

over ether.

when strangers

walk by--

holding their peace

like failed seekers.

this particular rain rode out

all obviousness to its absence--

then fell as what is left of a life.

making it impossible for any

stock to be taken--because of

its perfect consideration.

as if a reinforced hug to aversion.

one was reminded that there is an

outside with no reprieve, & that

one can be in two places at once.

when you're made to sit with It,

you don't know how you got there.

a mind (non-possessive) offered

a body (possessive) the unco

outgrowth of the following.

writing left to right about a heart

hung like the skinned head of an

unseen animal.

its long bath slowly drained--

staring down at sawdust like gold

shavings.

it is both true & untrue to say a

heart will not rot in a chest.

Thanatos--are you standard in your
procedure?
that is, do you exert the precise force an
individual requires to be pronounced
dead?
are you negligible with some, completely
unaware of your strength?
leave no dust for dust to come to, as you
would the like of: nothing.
do you keep the lives you take for yourself--how would that work?
you should have been dead the first time, but you didn't die--you took a life & ran with it.
you never stop, do you--which's to say you're infinite, that word afforded  bad poets.
the way that looking at checkered shoes
feels like the makings of a headache.
Thanatos--i suspect you're more than
submitted anatomy, you've never once
rejected a submission (in the end).
nor will you this poem.
you are winter here, & i know you see in snow--what about elsewhere?
Thanatos--what if i told you that you're
somehow a lesser god, subordinate to
Gd of thy Gd.
i'm yours--but in an unfaithful way.
you whose exotic collection of
Mahasamadhi is like a cat nap with
elevator music to you.

space has always heard disembodied
voices--then mouths eventually
opened with shocks of sound.
when that involuntarily comes across,
incantations are dwarfed--meaning to.
as if through a corresponding row of
numbers, that give way to unlikey
shapes that compliment one another.
a cluster of grapes resting on the hip
of a naked woman, lying on her side.
light-canceling curtains purporting
the birthplace of darkness, net
motions loose as color left scheming.
though nothing stirs--per se.

the ground suffers vertigo--its
differential of wake to silence.
Christ walking thru twelve minds,
whose perception of him do not vary--
xing out a stain glass fish with a diamond.
then unto variances...exposed capillaries
uprooted by hosted light, like wiggly
ocean plants on white stones.
following a needle's twain, to the pupil's
ecliptic.
a Gravitron's light years blaring Classical
Age mockeries.

an elderly man in Prague threw out
his Sunday paper, in the same trashcan
he always does--for a sense of order.
a northern mockingbird still lies dead
on the steps leading to our basement
door.
the epilogue of two November nights
tried to convince the third not to show
up an hour early.
the I Am caught a red leaf while in full
stride, then let it go a few steps later.
pumpkins with carved faces are
disappearing--while uncarved pumpkins
may see another month.
the Atlantic now wears Long Island like
a sleep mask--as a Great White draws
elusive parallels under cold waves.
a broken plate was found to
symbolize the connective tissue of
character development, in a bargain-bin
novel.

a witch's death mask turned up on the black
market--rumored to have shrunk herself, leaving
behind a thumb size cast.
ending up on the living room wall of an elaborately
detailed dollhouse, conjuring the whole transaction.
remanifesting like rot's backhand--her nose touching
her crutched chin, which conceals a sunken mouth
frittering away two teeth.
she pokes around the dollhouse with her *******
bouncing off her knees, as phlegmy laughter trickles
***** down bamboo stalk legs.
her *** is a wrinkly retraction, covered by strands of
white hair that appear fished-out of her skull.
she's just fertilizer patch, wet & wild about hell playing
dollhouse--& how wearing the death mask seems to
say something about her, even while pretending.
she must leave a few telling traces, so she peels off nursery
wallpaper--with leafy apples between slow to learn letters.
throws a black *** on a fireplace, making its flames shoot
up & fall like a timed fountainhead--caressing it as an
expectant mother would, the very joy of a spellbook.
until her fingers blister, and their swirlingly green prints
can be deflated--worshipping how dead skin clings to life.
then she slips into a plastic mirror & begins squeezing
blackheads from her overarching beak, until wormy ****
sprouts from the mirror.
flicked off into a limnal-drab sink, then climbs out of the
mirror & wills all her hair to shed.
exiting into the greater house to observe the man who
purchased her death mask sleep.

a rumpled gentlemen with his head on a desk--
the bent light of his mind snaps with an
aberrative upthrust.
Goya's: "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters"--
as bats fall to fly with a staggering jaggedness, the
twilight goes underground.
they're a flexuous miasma above the gentleman's head,
or like snakes climbing the glass of an aquarium.
a leathery dark with a bald purple gleam, smoked
clean through.
reveals the wickedly behooved whites of eyes,
expanding with what will be consumed.
this kind of sleep does more than warm death over,
the sleeper is made to watch himself do things--with
no electric blue escape route.

an amateur photographer waits till a room fills
up with degrees of connection--as people move
relative to prattle's false starts.
just when the deep space of universal greeting
collapses into conversation, the room's undulant
field registers unnatural spikes in noise level--
like supercells on a radar.
as if language showing first signs of fluidity, met
with the straitjacketed primitivism of listeners--
itching to go from zoo-like soundings, to being
seduced by the traction of their own voice.
at this the bluffy segue of wineglasses are tilted off
a tray--their long necks & lippy vaunts sparkling
to an ear-piercing parse.
a lens glares out of obscurity, as if the blue
shorts the blue--to blink back right there.
recoiling hands spastically thrown around deformed
hubs--with an anesthesiologist' catalogue of faces.
our photographer's delectation came from seeing it as
the discordia of the fifth wall.

Poe sits like meat locker Tummo,

in a flake's firepit--giving off snow's incense.

with his vest unbuttoned, wearing a t shirt

of Antarctica's: True South flag.

his elegantly racked face thinking of the seven

archangels, how all their names end with an: l.

necessitating the tongue to reach the mouth's roof.

his: "Philosophy of Composition" ceases dissecting:

"The Raven"--evermore (True North) is the same as

nevermore (True South).

the ****** trank of autumn duskiness--
creature features letting trees grip closeups,
that stand for a protagonist' last day.
screeching ques overexerted by alpha predation,
as horror's head classically wedges out from a
tree's hip--the day after.
flies walled in the gizzards of crisscrossing birds,
& an homage of costume flowers discarded
on damp mulch.
a cutthroat lack of resolution all along.
the inadvertent image of a grin below a chin--
drawn by creatures with their pointer fingers.
a slack-jaw totem pole augmented by an audience,
a stake driven into trackless woodland.
sleep paralysis on a  19th century canopy bed,
tightly drawn--changing with leaves.

convening floorboards grok the mover--

pitchy with unwanted presence,

as if the rapping light of a poltergeist.

alienated by the epiphenomena of their

own home, a hair-trigger mashup.

an implicate order "Truman Show" with

boundary issues, the nervous exhaustion

of omega pointed out.

deemed reductive overhead, & so on.

St. John of The Cross sets off motion detector

lights in the unconscious--which it cannot

unsee.

a state of being whose night still walks, turns

the turned, inside out.

the feeling of having been before, is where

you are, feet lost to the difference.

as if there's no self to fulfill prophesy, Christ

is also a night owl.

a noseless breather, skeletally pug--

(pura oblivio)

smells the cooler end of air like rubbing

alcohol.

as a moldered dog would thru a dingy

screen, watching a raven that dances

in a series of flops.

the mock-break of wings in a caw of

exilement, as the secret passageways of

leaves fly open.

an exploding tv dinner--in a microwave,
on a **** tube.
then the Tetra-like gridlock of a channel's
spectrum, the air's breathing spell.
Robert Johnson turned over as a raw lick
at the crossroads--his voice & guitar digging
a hole in vinyl.
the bluesiest devil exhorting: 'you're almost there
Robby--I'll tell you when to stop.'
a crackling breakthrough lifts an emphatic warp.
meaty hands holding balloons & cotton candy,
having a good day above ground--as other
meaty hands check their raffle tickets for the
winning number at the fair.
which's a special house visit from Pogo the Clown,
who'll have a staring contest with anyone present,
then leave.
the following was filmed in front of a live studio
audience: hived crosshatchings, rashy doubles
(2/1-1/2)--the rippling harp of daydreaming sitcom
characters, keys in each cloud they want to throw in
a bowl.
Robert Crumb's existential countdown from zero, his
neurotic flashback-flashforward Americana,
what-to-do-nowness.
out-drawing suicide, perhaps play tenor banjo in
the South of France...

black noise gentles out calls to weakness--

the exposed bellies of private animals, in

discolored night.

profuse as a Garden of Gethsemane--eaten

away by a hard alphabet.

they are the thing that needs to be said.

spines like blowing reeds going through the

motions of unofficial prayer, subdividing

stations of living quarters.

a tower viewer careened by a tourist,

trying to find their center.

the adverse effect brought on--somehow

being too scenic, a fake hyperrealism.

which becomes the irrational fear of concurrence.

not unlike: 'G*d you scared me, i didn't know you

were there!'...

as so the tower viewer stays positioned by

sudden disuse.

clothes start to feel like skin
on skin--the exclusivity of bodiless
wings, sickly sweet refreshers.
air's first cold stare at fire, the scent
of its rough *** carrying a harvest.
a charred basket left at an open field.
scared crows anatomizing he who
goes there--same as a stranger in a
fallout with light.
always last seen, & unrecognizable.
where trees follow him--with inward
resolve.

Jezebel's been skeletonizing True Crime--
plethoric to the degree of Richard Ramirez'
breath, a fellow halitosis sufferer.
especially noting the forensics of love, as if she
could inspire such extremes.
a crone's rotative head, turning the screws of
invisibility--hypervigilant of a kind of danger that
won't even consider her.
there's a poet Jezebel reads in that manner--a darkly
handsome force at her throat, willing to lay it all down.
poems like a shadow's outer space--right there, yet
coming after her.
Jezebel's delusiveness  hurls moondust at this poet's
absence--generous enough to have pleasured her.
as since her deterioration expects the worst, so the poet
writes her off as dead--which she literalizes, poor thing.

objects are the adjectives of ghosts--
always after common identification,
their cumulative presences.
an altogether unique eeriness,  
generating an intuition that stands for
what they outspan.
museums for ghosts--transfixion to the
extent of becoming that object, whose
power of attraction is equally mysterious.
so much so that the passed on, can pass on--
from unoccupiable time...light replacing a
period piece thought to be current.

medieval paintings feel scrutinized by a
torturer--an upside down cross that lowers
into an oubliette.
the: "forgotten"--where a prisoner is thrown,
from a trap door that opens to a bottle-shape
pit.
with only enough room to stand, according to
what bones the fall selectively broke--as if
retorts to what end.
sewage often working its way in, putrid fumes
riding the back of chills & out with *****.
the hysterical prickles of whiskers, shooting
a toothiness unfit for a mouth--head above water.
slicked back fur pulling along a skin tail--rats
marking a precise claustrophobia.
excellent for nervous eating in a screaming darkness.
where regions of the prisoner do not report back,
as wind between mountains of night seeing itself off.
feces & ***** raining down from jesting guards--
lowering his head to briefly acknowledge the
corpse he's standing on.
while trap door phosphenes begin to open for the:
"forgotten".

there's a crow i keep around,

that will never forget my face.

it watches all forms of life play dead,

nothing gets passed it--so it can not

play dead.

nor can it play alive, it doesn't exist in

any sense--yet it will never forget my face,

because it will never have to remember it.

i say crow, as i say pet--where associative images

come to mind, yours or mine?

you have words for almost everything--even me,

you call me: nothing, ness as of...there isn't

even space.

Franz Xaver Messerschmidt sculpted his face
sixty times--an arcanum of flesh's malleable
appeals to a skull.
his: "Character Heads" yanked out in front of
a mirror's propriety, a natural madman
exceeding a chimp's ****** expressions.
the inverse catatonia of a pickled alien--
where colors don't clash.
Franz believed he was hunted by the:
Spirit of Proportion--due to his mastery of
sculpture, its punishable likenesses.
whose features' puff-**** brands ether with
magick, the idolatrized signal of rebellion.
his sixty: "Character Heads" were meant to ward off
this equalizer of art--sort of like how Vlad the Impaler
stuck countless decapitated heads on pikes, outside
his castle walls, to unnerve enemies.

twenty four caprices of lording fire--
a violin grabbing the horsehair of a bow.
brutal angulations, the muteness of
hollowed out release--keen to its own ear.
then multiplying fingers plucking at strings, as
if deviously imposing a riddle.
the karma sutra of incubi & succubi.
the idle thoughts of their prince, supping at
a decomposed apple--its tiny anuses sliding
out seeds.
while he looks up in ejaculatory boredom--
unable to live it way down.

a curved stony enclosure whose seawall gives
way to hulking cliffs--with chiseled ramparts
akin to bottom cuspids.
standing before foldable reflections--aside from
the accelerating interpolation of sea-clouds, prone
to negatives.
the guiding intelligence of a flood cupped by an
isle that is unmet with a return.
its interior of entryways are desolate modulators
of tides.
as the two main entrances to the isle set stone apart,
the first as ruggedly cut indicators--the second as
altar-immaculatus blocks.
its baselevel of algae--fed by browning runoffs of rain,
along cracks filled with ivy.
leading into cypress trees expecting late visitors, with
an adamance that gives an odd calm to the out-of-place.
though they unnaturally crowd & surpass their enclosure,
with a tingle of wildflowers anticipating them.
making a point of something, already at its most advanced
stage--withholding a shade solid enough not to have been
under a burning phos.
come the skewed vision of a boat, progressing in the way
of water.
the sea peering at the back of the void's head, as it's shone
upon.
the forward tilt of a boatman's oared tension--stiffly even
keel, with enough momentum to float to the isle.
the boat becomes sensationless...the figure in the white
shroud knows nothing else but what is about to transpire.      
as if Lazarus dazedly brought to his feet, remaining there
for all the world.
the only thing that the cypress trees can see, as take into
their shade the coffin.

an exhaustive compilation of

audio skips, left on replay in an

empty room.

would emptiness scramble for

that room--after the recording ends?

as if reflexively concealing itself from an

entity that suddenly emerged.

a sibilance that broke with no break.

its own recording picking up where the

recording ended.

the way stagnant water resembles a fish

out of water.

the seizuring digits of a grade school  

calculator, forgotten in a pouch put away

for storage.

as the half man/half butterfly morphosis of a Zen

master disturbs the meditation of his master's,

master.

being cut clear in half with his stick, through the

manicured flatness of sand granules retracing

their distinctive sounds.

while they adhere to its rigidity.

an occulted mass kicking at light gone
a moment ago, as if in a sooty stomach,
maleficent enough to deliver the unborn.
cries that vent down a lengthening
hallway--abandoned to what forces open
an original wakefulness.
the way knowing you becomes a cryptic
comorbidity, a walk of shame every morning--
a slathered nausea, too smooth for sickness.
tons of traumatized flesh recanting vulnerability,
(mostly yours) long after a bed became a
one-sided argument.
seasons regard you with braindead gossip: 'is that
her again, she still exists--she always thinks
something's off, it's the landfill of personal stuff she
compulsively goes through. '
a nonstop pause for Jane, her yoyoing edge--a highly
inconspicuous center of attention, captured in photos
superficially waving off the fuss.
a hyperalert shutdown, Cinderella's carriage to pumpkin
developing acne vulgaris, sloppily tripping with eyes
caked on her.
angsty & unrestorable disconnects--daring selectees to
root out a fantastic despiser.
tender years designating the world as an apologist.
a chronic sense of entitlement winks out, already 
elsewhere--as if nothing ever happens.
then happens all at once, a fluorescently lit bathroom
unsparing an in-your-face ugliness.

dungeonesque clanking, subterranean bass
shadowing his 6ft. nine in. horror-addled gait.
the bizarro treble of: decapitation/necrophilia/
dismemberment, introduce Ed Kemper to spaces
he lays comparative disproportion to.
neck like a Great Dane, drowsy bookish eyes
smeared behind circular glasses, decisive comb-over,
& walrus mustache.
his intelligence quotient test herded him where
geniuses reportedly dwell.
monstrously sidestepping from where things can't be
measured--murdering his mother & her friend, along
with six female co-eds (not to mention his grandparents
on a prior youthful conviction).
now imagine Ed, plain old Ed--taking a load off in a
soundless recording booth in prison.
clearing his throat & reading into a microphone--
hypnotically translating into a cavernous monotone.
jarring the listener to heightened attention with emphasis--
seventeen audiobooks were recorded by Ed Kemper for:
The Blind Project.
how ironical for such an elocution to bleed through--
in this way.

a google earth stalker hovered &
zoomed in on localities that predicted
his frequency like an equated John.
fanatically checking for refreshed images--
that he may feature as an action shot of
undiscovered talent.
the quirky habituation of her long distance
fix, a savant's out-of-body experience.
a rendezvous' autopilot, more accurate than a
dreamt address--a gooey **** driving fingernails
into tight fists.
despoiling the lifelines of palms, eyelids cracked
open like blinds voyeuring on the closed door
policy of the indecent.
now she jams her zipper, while hopping in &
out of bed with self-mythology.
alone with her body, or alone with another body.
she's back on google earth again, fastidiously
searching for an appropriate potter's field.

leaning towards those in your elephantine ears,
fast with reerecting churchy whispers--have
monumental opinions of you.
while you're used at ease, in adjustably particular
ways--nodding with pathetic gratitude.
your sister's ***** slip that night, in regard to a
pinnable justice on your cold ***--goes around in
sisterly unsaid.
what you desecrated with the dead weight of
forward motion, isn't even aware of retrograde as
damnability.
a chartless pole leaves an elderly woman where
she lie, for good--as you sleepwalk away from her.
she's lonely because you probably won't make it there--
despite all the surrounding evidence.

the weak ancestry of your menstrual
flow leaked its curse under my roof.
as the moon became an aborted
metaphor--a witch left back scavenging
for a grade of being.
making evil little faces with no magical
reserve, froggies caught in your throat.
unintelligibly shrewd pangs clamoring
for screams deep in the sticks.
with a flightless broom dry heaving
between your legs.

it's all very prepubescent--they'll drag out

a box of toys by its crinkled lip from a hiding

place, & begin to rummage.

as if the box's stomach were growling, the greedy

dig underway.

toys of interest haphazardly make the carpet's cut.

then the remaining box of toys is kicked back into

its Precambrian closet, as with a tentative tantrum.

toy worlds in all phases of creation intersect, collide &

are destroyed--with a handful of survivors combining

shellshocked wisdom.

then even they go their separate ways in Adam & Eve like

scenarios...the prepubescent's *** feels bloodlessly sore.

gets up, retarding calisthenics--leaving behind a mess of

cause & effect.

not dissimilar from the novelty-parasites you may encounter

in relationships.

preternaturally longish grey hair,
acid-yellow buckteeth hanging from the
slathered lipstick of your thin upper lip.
(a wigged version of Billy Corgan).
fixed into a moronically concentrated pucker,
failing at the illusion of fullness.
while garnishing an apartment with the
paraphernalia of a free spirit too stale to beat
to death, a just-so of obsessively repeated
finishing touches.
the remanent rise of ******-***** coziness,
niche/nook/now--you, no...wind doesn't like you.
the very thought of your current routine is as
flotsam as the passion-**** you once dealt.

Cerberus' tri-lapsing time,
wholly materializes at the everchanging
gate of hell's undisclosed location.
three-headed hound: one head looks backward,
one head looks downward, one head looks forward.
watchful as the white candles with black flames.
his constant chain reaction of biting mouthfuls
from a disassociated body--swept with unanimous
agonies.
then viciously going at his faces & necks.
all fours in a multidirectional trounce for potential
escapees.
there's a stench so piercingly foul that it can only be
registered between retches--yet Cerberus' six
nostrils relish it.
are adept at deciphering it from the condemned
that attempt to creep.
the electrically gruff boom of his bark staying their
torn feet.

the earth's twin died at birth.
her twin visits her only when she too
wants to die.
her twin changes geography as if wearing
an equatorial mood ring.
all features forever present, but nameless.
once she stopped, condensing a single
revolution into the sandy pit of a circus
enclosure.
the color of depthless purple, in the middle of
a desert.
enter Noah's henchman--the one who taught
animals to perform tricks.
he wore a top hat & had a seven foot tall
crystalline body.
the ringmaster's pit was filled with serpents,
colorized & patterned as if out of a pineal gland.
he went thru them, snapping them straight into
flaming swords--head to tail.
working them down his throat.
until a wind stood up, swirling against his ring
as if it were surrounded by glass.
when that protective forcefield let off--the
ringmaster vanished into blown continuations
of sand.

one can't be sure how much
transfigurement occurs during sleep.
how often a straight line fudges a crooked
line, so: a/b/c can sequentially light up.
three yesterdays ago today--a legless
Daddy-long-legs was pulled across the
floorboards of my head.
in response to the banging vacuum of
wakefulness.
as a bedroom window isolates what will
be uniformities of rain--shower (cut!),
shower (cut!), shower (cut!)...with a finale
of steadiness?

you find a completely empty picnic area--
showing up dressed as a widow.
black kerchief wrapped around your head--
tied at the chin, a predominance of cheeks
with a buggy-bulge of purple horn rim glasses.
barefoot with a black dress on, obscuring
splatters of sweat: back/*******/paunch.
holding an ice sculpture of a fruit basket on a
ninety degree day.
you spread a white sheet & set it down, as
large ants congregate on this succulently
carved chunk of ice.
you then get naked, save for the black kerchief--
as if undergoing a strip search in prison.
sitting Indian style--chanting the sutras of an
emotional *******, while periodically licking
the melting fruit basket to sate your thirst.
until one of the large ants bites your tongue.

it turns out the other point of our

triangle is worthy of more respect

than you.

don't dare misconstrue this reckoning

as a flattering plea.

walls rumble as they close in, don't worry--

nothingness will survive.

the uniqueness of your scent, rapidly

signaturing fear--with nails bitten off like

sunflower seeds.

as your latest stuffed animal summons the

courage to come to life--just so it can run away

from you.

flawlessly repeating what it was taught.

try playing air guitar on the

breaking wheel--you're certainly not

rock n roll sweetheart.

spat out by silence & apathy alike, you

hide under a bed--with a wanna be girl's

voice, reprimanding nightmares to play

fair.

hold your ears & grit your teeth--harken

back to the number of fruit flies you've

rescued from speedy oblivion.

it'll all go away just for you, again--no it

won't.

the sidereal undoes the bandage around its

eyeless sockets, looks under your bed--cross

at seeing you clearer than ever.