Little girls in ****-bright paint
and their brothers with button-ups,
colorful shoes. I'll never be that fast.
"He" is having a party and his parents
will be gone. I could bring the
***** and be well-liked; lying
on the carpet in the sticky ***-smoke.
Summer spins as the ceiling fan
lies still. Still, I'll never be that fast.

My neighbors all burst into flame
But they're cool enough to dowse themselves.

Come and feed
Opalescent mouth
Come break bread with.

My kith and kin
Seek to join.
You can doff your.

Hat and sit,
yes, they're in
The parlor.

Is the Parthenon
But my clan is borrowed
From the Coliseum.

Come and see 'em.
Ranged in chair by
Height.

To bite,
Now you can go in to
The table but only along.

One side as
Leonardo
Would suggest.

Our featured feast begins with mother's grin.
But ends with wiping father's ****** chin.

They wear white shirts that lope into the village square
And hate the dust that settles there.

Their children leave the schoolhouse with schoolmaster's nod
To see the traveling works of odd.

With cries and drums and fire held in open hands,
Four insects bless the godless lands.

Yes, every song on every face is writ on steel,
Cemented by the thunder's peal.

Toward the night the fires burned away the spell,
Yet still the truth did four men tell.

I live here.
My world with edges.
An Oklahoma landscape.
Couldn't bear to be anywhere else.
You live away from me, though.
That failed mystic: Time
Sets his claws
(Teeth seizing ice) then
Bleeds all color from our hair.
But I can live eternally in
A photograph. My mother,
See? In the corner?
Yes. Just there.

When Death sets all god's children free,
There will be room for one.
For I will live in ninety-three
And pray for Kodak sun.

I feel like I am A New Orlean doll
With my burlap and my threaded seams
To view the world.
My fingers are stitched
And immobile.

I feel like I should scream—
Scream to wake
Scream to crack the atmosphere
Or scream to come alive.
My mouth, however, is dumb.

I feel like I am in someone else's shape
Someone who has wronged
And will be wronged alike
With needles I ***** myself.
My embroidery comes apart near my chest.

Blind woman's stitch binds me to his hair.
He turns and drops when I am rendered air.

The last feeling pang passes in a gasp
As the cold metal, hot metal
Pierces through that bending
Wind-like flesh.
In a second it will be a
Feature like the hue of eyes
Borne its weight long and steps inside
Its waiting grave.

******* on a bed of nouns
Spiked by the periodic verb
And desiccated seconds.

The taste is like a herb
Stored since birth
And the death that stretches before it like a curb.

Flavor radiates plateau from the earth
As the little soldiers, little flies
Fly out through mouths with their small girth.

The insect words that scuttle past our eyes
Know when recited truly each one dies.