Smoke separating
into two streams
-blue and grey-
before dispersing

The wind
pushes them
back in from
the window, and
they do not fight
its force
-like me-

I'll bend
and waver
wherever
the breeze
wills

The microwave heats
but leaves a cold seep in the
middle of the meat

The sea
frightens
me.

Too deep
wide
dark
ice
wet
filled with
creatures

It does
not stop.

Kisses sweetly
the sandy
shoreline:
Is it teasing
or begging
forgiveness?

It cannot
stop.

My fear
lies in the
immensity of
its depths
and
in the
thought that
pleasing or
pleading

The ocean
will kiss
the shoreline
-always-
with a frothy
caress

Flow so hot,
I got Satan sweatin

I got ****** more strung up
than a cotton gin

Candy flippin, cross faded-
chase it down with gin

Pat, pat pat: what am I?
A puppy, a shoulder, a mammogram?

What makes me what you think I am?
A feeling, a line, a telegram?

Slit to split slip
knotted strings
attached to every

balloon chocked up
colored chakra covered

balloons Up with Ellie's
babies and belongings in a
cloudless storage space

Unnecessary thus unused
then unreal: the fading of

love as a mother tongue
unspoken for generations
at a time dies out, eventually

the helium depletes or
something pops off

I was once a classically trained pianist:

My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom tuned to the metronome.

Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias

and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.

What is the value of
a wrong note alone

or amongst many,

of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?

Close the eyes
to give it a try:
Florida sun
vibrant and warm

Sensations known
but not felt

It was -indeed-
and that is
all it was

I **** like a fairy
on funghi

One guy happens
to come by, and waves
ridden are quickly riddled with  

Wastewater that nobody wants beating
against itself, with wings going like mad,
and the kid's shout in the street still
the God of history, or so it goes...

If luck lies fairly
on the fun guy

Something along
the fine line of
leave me the
**** alone

Again it comes
quickly, that
inexorable id
charred charge
charging

Misanthropic by nature:
nothing personal,
surely, as devised
in divided dual
individuals make
a good duo with
moody id

But as a whole?
Those holed and humid
humans imps imposing
postures?
Literally, they can
all literarily eat me
out—medium-rare,
raw—

Part of the pleasure
lies in the silent
treatment:

The sinful thing is the thing
prohibited is the injunction
to talk about the thing that
should not be talked about

The discourse that most becomes
a silence is the authoritative kind,
in the way that a child's authoritative
cry lies in an ability to shut it up

A child cries and you
pick it up like a book and
set it down like a book

The wind does not knock
though it be a lonely soul.
It turns, goes back home

The sun has no
skeleton -to
our knowledge-

It cannot break
or fracture, and
so does not think
of them

No jointed rays to
reach out or
hold like hands

Only
porous warmth

Quiero volver
a Sevilla
cuando
podemos
levantarse
durante siesta
y volver a
dormir
-pero
solo esta
vez-

Para espere
y mata de
hambre
el hambre

Tiendas cerradas
desde dos
hasta cinco

In sheets and stone
presently wrapped up
nice and tightly tucked in:

A close embrace
of the earth

Play mountain- with the
hill a slide- the slide
a hill and the swing

Drawn up on all corners:
the equating shift
of gravity and the
aesthetic

**** so small
that **** look like some *****,

******, ******:
one, two, three

She say baby hurry over
so I tell her okie doke

She got fiya and dank earthy buds
I call that oakey dope

Smoke and chillin netflix playin
Hoping I can hokey poke

Soft spots mark up
the body and spark

plugged up: an implosion

syrup sweet weeps sticky substances
like love, chuunibyou, and other delusions

dreamed: in language strange
spoked, soaked in sulphur

a beautiful man without mercy hath thee in thrall

This is how
you start a
poem:
one word
and then
another;

make sure each
word begins with
a letter;

-Note some tone
there in each
stanza and line-

This is where the
meaning of the
poem becomes clear
to the reader;

Here is the turn,
and at the same
time its resolution;

This is how you
end a poem: with
one last word

God I'm
crazy and
weak.

I wish I still
believed and
could pray -it
really did
help-

A godless
world is exactly
what you'd imagine
it to be -partially
because we
live in it-

I hate
that once
a month I'm
stuck being a
girl with girl needs
and girl whims

I hate that
it makes me
actually miss
you when you're
gone: acknowledge,
assess, process,
exactly  
how long it's
been

Maddening.

I imagine
disgusting globs
of whatever
stuff you claim
to have so much of
sloughing

off,
crawling away
half dead in the
cold coming to
the window to
tap, or perhaps
the door
to
knock like a
lonely soul and

you know
I've a psilocybin
enduced empathetic
streak embedded deep,
couldn't possibly
leave a thing to
freeze on its
own,
but
still yet
intruding
against my
will:

This is
the only
explanation:
I could not
thus feel
otherwise
by myself,
nevertheless
being mired
in such muck

I hate
being stuck
with the absence
of you for days
at a time
-especially with
these blobs
reminding of how
once
you were willing
to drive to
Tom's before
I had to cath him
at 2:30
in the morning

Just to smoke
and talk
a little
while

I doubt any of that
even matters now

God...
I must
be crazy
going crazy
acting crazy

I hate it.

I also hate
hating things.

Well **** me if
I haven't had this

memory before of a
love expanding during
its reconstruction.

The purpose of such
a thought is to make it
like a poem- all pure and
full of the meaning its given,

and I remember the point
of remembering: to whittle
away the excess and reveal its
ideal form, but what if

it gives you a back kick

A poet must produce some
type of lust in their words

To slurp up sloppily some
light red meat juice

Who's that on the
dial of the radio?
-a twist to the left
and sounds come
out rejoicing-

Immortal thoughts voiced
crossed coming through
the wiring

Loose **** turned
to set the tape
rewinding

Baby got thighs
like she ain't afraid of gluten

Way she put it down
like a law, like Newton

Laws are made
in the light of
its consequence,
written to be
enforced rather
than practiced

An active angel
abides by the
natural laws in
which it resides

Following the example
of the sun: turning
leaves green not
because they
lack green

In its essence emitted
allows for such
things to exist

Whose *** do you
tat for up the sleeves

Of a fine charlatan
selling tinctures and
such

Mira al cielo
como un fuego
-con ojos apartan-
el sol sumirse
en el olvido,
en un sueño
profundo,

Mira al cielo
oscureciendo

Frustration function
to organize the committee
for their public tongue shun

Jettison junction
flicked up or down
in the merging lane
to turn left or right
with unction

What a snare of delusion!
What a state of confusion.

To shoot the hen before
dawn; awake to quiet
its intentions

Can a poem crunch
like a carrot in toddlers
teeth, chewed up quickly?

Flatterer (n).

Bits of silver whispered
from a well-polished tongue;

a certain flexing of fondness

Apart a part
partnership apartment
in the armpit of
the army

Arms arming
apart a part
artfully
artlike
ark like
covenant:
partners partly
apart

Choral songs sung
in corpus mixtum,
perpetual rehearsal
within the cathedral
turned to mere stone
-only 1 or 2 heathens
in the bunch-

Liberated from speech,
pagans, and plainness
-like Liberace and his hair-
upperish limit: written
music, and past that?
Prayer

Again the train makes
a standard stop at what
the **** am I doing

So I get off.

Dinshaw argues that
the text is feminine and
the writer masculine but what
does that have to do with anything?

Good lord, the frilly words make
crochet lace and the others
make the rest-- now doesn't
that make sense: a scent
of cents means money!

The sign of the signified says: Why
the **** is this happening? You read
into me and translate accordingly but
can't seem to interpret a bit of it like the
first poem in Zong, but I'm not sure if you'll
remember what that quite looks like

You reading rather feminine lace
together an image of Mulcahy from
the Coombe that's not a bit like the
man! With a laugh who could
blame a drunken thought?

All the stupid girly **** gets dealt
with in a familiar manner stripped
bare teeth tearing the cloth in the process
of progressing to **** it like the little
**** it is: exactly how it deserves

Your moon princess turns
into folklore where nothing
is left but an ancient language
written in a mother tongue
in languish whilst unspoken.

You read languidly like
sparknotes slow speed reading
some well known notion readily

Of me standing stark naked
--out of clothes-- at a
random station

There is a violence in translation.

I diluted
the piles
of bile
in my organs
with half
a bottle
of water

As once
I woke, -felt
the blob of
thickness
sloshing about-
knew it'd be one of
those mornings
on my knees
before the
royal throne

I still
taste
sour acid
and
the miasma
is still
swirling

Whose fan do you service
so regularly and generously?

Which senpai do you hope
and need to notice you?

Whose moral maiden’s ****
are called to duty?

Tobacco tar
stuck like the scars
from my tattoos:

pain elective
and
permanent

like we like the
mimetic representational
citations of Bryson Tiller
and Drake,

what hails so merrily
your unsaid name?

You say things like:
"Caw caw!" and "llamo"
with a hard L

As a statement
you ask: "You my baby?"
Despite the holes in my body

Our shared presence a chaotic
good and I, beside myself, at your
"We love each other, don't we?"

The sky would darken
to a terrible color.

It would tear
and bare orange
wounds as hail

like stars on fire fell
from the gaping sky

I feel
I learned
to speak

by reading.

I don't remember
the joy of shouting
with accuracy

some signified
entity aloud,

but I recall the sensation
of annoyance at sounding
out the toothsome shapes
at such a slow pace

compared to the force of
words creation exploding
in meaning and references

within such a
small space.

Pools filled
with pennies

drowned out wishes

Children splashing
in the shallows

I throw this *****
like a tantrum

He say my name
like a mantra

Slappin clappin ***
like a hand drum

Had him so thirsty ask him
"Don't you want a fanta?"

Sea or broom
the meaning

runs out of room
to have legs to move--
and like the self

(in love) and useless debris
tends to get swept away

Shake
makes up
the bulk of
it

-tobacco in
the tips-

Gum
licked over

Smoke blown
lips

I see it
-the poem-
and it sees
me from within
myself as well.
It tells me to write

not about things
that have meaning, but
to write things that
have meaning:

The stone and
the face of the stone,
and the voices
within it too

Ante added up
in a slipshod
sweatshop for

Permission to hanker
on some buttermilk
slopwork with

A frump finery of sorts
laundered nicely:
a down gown