down down down
like feathers poured over rain
kissing each other in the
scentless prison of time;
like tumbling
foundlings

to an earth
unmoved

I am slipped in the demon end
of god's wiry hair,


pulled and plucked at;
made a nuisance of,
made a thorn in the
crystal eye of this



new Allmighty

Darkling, folded in absentia,
Eye-wandering through incorporeal portals–

Now a smile,
heretical and broad
as her the sun’s lonely gates.

th  e nothingman

goes to play

                in wide          wide
playground

doodling
                 with pal e
nons
ense

              c rayons a new

jewely
skin


he is made with


nothingbones &
hollow
teeth
&
the soup

howlingness

of hers
and his
and theirs and
if's

newish
fatty

comedy

thickish about th
e
[e
dg
es]

hands seek the
                           blue ribbon--
the flutterer

                                            in butterfly

                                   scars.
catch it.

                      please. This too cannot

    go to god.

                                      The heavens

                     are glutted with
                              joy.

fiends melting
up
their cracking
statues
on the unsweet
asphalt;

hey what's up man c'mon man
what're you doin all alone
all the way
down
here

The tiled sky
wrings its hands over us;
below the children swing,
back and forth,
back and forth;

there will be blood
soon;
simple, causeless
blood;

in our ears
and mouths
and under
our nails

and the children will
swing,

back and forth,
back and forth,

like a surgeon's needle,
like a heel grinding,
like myriad fingers
twisting in hell.

the pavement
forest eats all wings
and spins them into ossified
gossamer--
the long teeth
of normalcy

This the morning of demise
for the longhearted her.
She eats into herself you see;
when there's nothing left to
eat

what lies moony in the
river ****,
scalded and
heavy-thumbed?

sit darling
      do sit

this is no new crime

yes this has been done before many times

           its all very regular I assure you
the procedures all the rage

                                                     its easy
                                                          really­
all you need is a little blade

maybe a sharp spoon


and perhaps a clear glass jar;
                 yes, a Mason jar, that'd be quite appropriate.

and you simply scoop


and you don't stop scooping -- stop squirming, darling, this is important--

until you are sure,
you are sure its quite well and gone.



and you place it all in the little jar and seal it up,
all nice and tight--

so nothing can get out, you understand.

and then you're all finished-- don't cry, darling,
its finished, see?

There's nothing there now.


Don't you feel so much
lighter?


                    If only I knew what it felt like
                                      it must be
                                     exquisite.


Isn't it exquisite, darling?

we come alone
to a blank house
and ask
"Why me, why me,
O Lord?"

budding mouths of graffiti
sprawl beneath her fingertips;

her eyes, like lanterns
flicker with saccharine ghosts
and she lets all of it
fall from her hands -

millions of untidy
little lives

this mad gristle flays itself
against the rigid
pyres of the stars;
it is lean, supple,
newmouthed and
hardly born;

It has trembled in the
arms of a woman,

and eaten of the fetal
apple--

stringent, stretched sticky
between the fingers
like a lung.

night slides into
smooth desolation;

The towered sky has
abandoned its former
lover.

tonight is an eating night;

it chews and gums
at the dark movements
of our hands

as a spray of flame
crosses the horizon and
bursts into many long
dragons;

the purple
quietude is vicious
in its applause

I am a calico dream,
slipped in a
teethless gown,
holding a warm
candle to light
your way;

I am a lightfoundling
shimmering in
the rays
of a new unmaking;

I am an ulcered
goodness;

I am
incorporated into
the bodies
of monsters

ghosts lined in
purple            queues
suntan their limpid bodies
         like dusty glass
in the fabulous

eyeholes of
death;

         he delivers
the cardinal produce
                                             of an empire

wider than it is tall,

fat with its
own body

the old promenade of the
graveyard loops its anarchic
teeth around me;

I think of Mister Death

his eyes unclouded by fear.

I think of cysts and powders
and drainages;

I think of pills in tight orange
cases, meticulously labeled

I think of needles and ******
and God;

I hear the trouncing and
bumping of lives

like the overlapping shadows
of branches beneath an
Elder tree.

I ask the eating
dusk if Mister Death
ever visits the littlest
of the graves


to wonder where it all went
wrong.

the blooming head of
purple smog reaches its feathered petals
across the bowl--

scentless, ascetic,
nearly seamless
with the iron clouds

sometimes
a wound-eyed night
stares up at you

indefatigable

like an opening
lotus

bleeding its
sticky seeds
into a famished
pond

like gory streams
of memory
curling their ruined
arms around
your body

maybe you know
or don't know
that they are no longer
here.

That they have never been,
and never will be again.

that those invisible warmths
that you and I
once knew so well

were only brief
and soluble oils
in the lightless
and infinite
sea of our living

crystals of orange peel
burnish your fingernails-

my love:

twist your hair into
crescent knots
and push the bedtable needles
towards God;

make dreamkissing meals
of the palms beneath you;
and seek together for our
sour calamity

scion of extinguished stars,
skinfeeling wraith,
what has crossed your
mind today?

the skimpy queens
drip their glory
beneath the neon-winged
albatross
in purple waves;

they straighten their
fractured hair in
fragrant puddles

as the rotten meat
of traffic kills
the stars

the light etches
the retinal disk,

plastered in
blue--
green--
red--
bands,
super-positioned
in the mildewed afterglow of
an exigent god--

garrulous,

too upright for death.

calamitous is the
           bend
of the           gum
and mouthtissue

as it curves

ever
inward

towards a
candy *****;

deep is the forgetting;
lasting is the purse
of
regret

I got this 2 bit christ figurine at Five Under today, his eyes wander like lost dogs and his hands were blunted into single digits in the service of efficiency in a chinese factory somewhere where no one ever sleeps or eats or speaks - I guess they think no one will notice if their god has no hands to hold them; he does so so rarely these days anyway its like he's lost his keys or wallet or something and he's looking for them way in the back where they keep the unicorns and utopias and clean politicians and pure childhoods and never-stale bagels and functional bowels, where all the people who have never once in their lives thought that they might be better off dead hang around and sip kombucha and read Kaur; he's back there, digging around, and god only knows how long until he gets back to work, maybe he'll have a beer first, order in, get comfortable -
point is
i wouldn't wait on him -
he's only on season one of the wire -
certainly hasn't had time to catch
up on you and I's little lives

a face walks the distance
a stye in the blackness
it cries pale tears
as the walls are raised above it
and there is nothing,

nothing at all
it can say

for there is nothing to
say
nothing at all

and beneath the sand
trembling armies crouch
around the body
of a young girl

younger
and more beautiful
than anything anyone has seen

more beautiful still than
the black blades of flowers
than the clean ribs of Heaven
than the calligraphy of
soiled limbs

and nobody
has anything
to say.

Ale-fiend of a sky-
neatly blotted,
looking down
with sour
red
I

the gross nice teeth
whitely blanched
come down on the raving tongue
drenched in
sea-salt and mercury
to become a mass
unregulated by design,
tinseled with
the heads of dolls;
their black button eyes
are sewn onto the
sun

who flinches and gnashes
like an insect in a
glass bell


new to
pain.

the dogs ****
in frictionless ghettos
eyes wide and hard
like gems

Cindy burns up near
the hall;

against the wall
a smear of men
with thin hats

and rat-eyes
leer up at god
and wrench their
impotent legs

up and down
up and down -

cold angels
with wings
of filth,

they bestow
evil names
on the flightless
hungers

that live like
invisible glass
in their guts

Are you now
knowing now is
            {never now}
but rather

shuttered with false
teeth

We sit in an empty house;
there is the torrent out there,
needling in the soft gloaming;

It is safe in here,
with the
old chairs
and peeling
shelves;

This is a peace
incumbent on the exclusion
of a wintry torment
which wheels and keens
in solitude

always outside
the door

So I sit
in one of
the many
long chairs
of a San Clarita
luxury resort,
red, oiled,
like a newly born
seal, sipping
from a tall glass
of pale spirits,
divining, redoing, and
unsettling the long rows
of people filing in and
out of the pool- which sits
like a fat dog on its
belly-
by squinting my
eyes and tilting my head to and
fro,
and I am noticed by
everyone, and
I come to bask in
their attentions,
noticed, spotlighted
by a grand and medieval
sun.
I am comfortable,
single, successful
in an artful and
humble way,
and everybody,
everybody finally
wants me.
I tilt my head
to the left and right
to view the spaces
of my dominion.
All at once
the angle becomes
wrong, and
I am feared,
despised, a witless
despot parading
around in false
clothes; my
mastery has fled;
all is revolting;
I am once again
myself

this beneathing of
our penitent
blood serves
to quench the
undressed
mind in
its neat
shackles

red kisses
dart persecuted and carnal
past the
avenue despots;

This night, at least,
is saved

a fabulous Mars
smoking red cigars
in a penguin suit
outside the door
of Providence;

who is this old man
who walks without a
cane;

is he the needless
demon of war?

this the


clack
clack
clack


of ductile
orange flesh
filling motel rooms
hinting at all the



lovely beasts
convulsing in the wretch
of telecomputers



and marmalade.

electric Mary
sings pretty songs
now;

never sad.

isn't that funny?

some eel
swims in her
eye

and she sings of
birds

This skull whines in its
sagging baggage;

            toot toot toot

goes the rabble,
moving their thought
packages along

           the neural airwaves.

electrostatic convulsions
take the heart,

turning it into a neat
neon abyss

                    full of radio top 40s
and cardiological indigestion.

spectral oracles deliver their
diabetic sermons
near the kidneys--
                     It will happen soon,
             they say
                    

and in the brain a dreamer
kicks an unpinned grenade
around and
says:

what has happened
tomorrow
was
happening today and
will happen yesterday;

and on and on
it goes.