I sat on the square of carpet and screamed
very quietly to myself.

I, the boy who
cried
melancholy.

I, the man who
watches his life
through his eyes.

I, the cruel ship that
glazes the waters of
a harsh music.

I, the silly hair that
obscures the face of
a murderess.

I, fit only for sleep
in the white palm
of an arthritic hand.

I, the child counting
backward on an abandoned
island.

I, glass-colored
and triangular like
the start of space.

I, the single ******
that begs for
a just spark.

I, the skin of glue
in a sweating
photograph.

I, the man selling
VHS players for
mega-discounts.

I, who clasped your
hand when you were
so very small.

I, an errant breath
in the postbox before
the empty Jones house.

I, keen on eating the
brick and mortar
beneath me.

I, who shall never
touch his face,
not even the one time.

I, in the midst of heat
and silence without
a single syllable of wet.

I, with a hatred for
your searching fingers
sticky-sweet.

I, sitting behind
long after the film
dies of exhaustion.

I, crayon and
8.5 by 11 inch paper
Valentines for violent boys.

I, second man,
forgotten man,
to my own movie.

I, grinning through
the lame as the
stitching wears.

I, strategic misery
on a tempest moon:
contemplating contemplating.

I, the laughing door
with a struggling ****,
and no keyhole.

I, who commits
suicide every Tuesday,
Thursday, and Sunday.

I, with cigar boxes
filled with all the tiny,
grandmotherish pieces of ****.

I, the knot that slips
off the head of a lonely
purpled finger.

I, and my
cloverfields,
and my rust.

I, with my dreams
about Japanese furniture
and magic, geometric roads.

I, dancing to a song
I cannot hear that issues
from a nonexistent room.

I stood and walked outside.

It's spring, I think.
There's a girl.
Blue dress and eyes.
Gold hair and a toy
Soldier that smiles
From her golden fist.

She is playing by
A wide lake. The
Wind through her
Metal braid is the
Soft mother's hand that
Dances flowers smooth.

See the grass sway.
See the wooden man
Blow elegantly away.
See her leap after him.
Hear her splash
Through the water’s skin.

Above the air
In the corse of a spectator-ship,
A wooden man is upside-down
To watch her drown.
He hums with the thrum
Of the blood in his ears,

"Blue over blue over blue."

I

Tiny, they dance through me on the green wind;
They breathe me in: flame-inflammable and time
Out of memories. Damsels in foreign stories long eaten.
Yet I feel so drowsy. Martyr-like they whisper trails
Of their sugar dust onto my face and make me
Itch. I scratch with citronella nails and burst
Forward into the night. One imagines they’ll follow,
Seeing as how they think I’m their sun.

Do you remember that summer we spent with the
Dead? Maybe it was too long ago for you, but you
Always woke me for the sunsets. I remember.
And there was some song or other that kept break-
Ing through the radio… with the raindrops and some
Stately clock that I always associated with you.

II

You were always underneath me
Writing those idiotic sonnets.

When you broke water-heavy from
Me, of course I tried to follow.

The song to which you referred
Was “Night and Day”, but you know
I can always remember the words
To you better than any foolish
Song. There’s a torch within me
Keeps repeating “You. You. You.”

Not the romantic.
The control.
A single white digit,
the sprawl of cool
smiles extend to
taste and see.

Their lives like
hyacinths that drink
the air in books,
plastic lips.
Slime from the marble.
A widow-dream.

Metal midair that
speaks a rat's tongue
with the deftness of
a seasoned lover.
His eyes can see your circuitry.
Her mouth the tree of night.

She breathes in my ear
with the yellow of the star
that greets the dusk.

He whispers to my palm
in the nature-sweet wax hum
that misses dawn.

But only by an inch.

The best thing about
Haiku is that if you run
Out of room you can…

Polar bears rarely
According to my knowledge
Play Marco Polo.

Sing with your eyes closed
And your audience can be
A thousand panthers.

The television
In the front room bites me when
I pet it too hard.

Is it still a haiku if all seventeen syllables are in one

No one can deny
My right to dream. Ah, someday
An all-moose hockey league.

Too late at night, I
Wonder if Shakespeare wrote D’s
The way I write mine.

I rearrange my
Furniture to make room for
More hopeful years.

James Dean. Rock Hudson.
Montgomery Clift. Cary Grant.
I’d hit it, girlfriend.

A girl of the streets
Offers him the right price for
One more game of checkers.

My bed does not face
The window. When it rains,
I always sleep through it.

I have not seen a
Sunrise in years; I don’t
Use public bathrooms.

…always continue
In another. [Something neat
About a panda.]

Interminably, he stands at the road side
Whether the weather is kindly or not
(Somehow it's never either one). Stands there
And makes an ingratiating little nod
To the clouds. The sky bears down with its slipped
Edges— Singular walls of the unspoken
Truth: The world ends at the last of vision.

Those cars that pass us reach the brink of this small
Hemisphere, quiver on the edge of
The black and turn sharply. The bell of the sky
Doesn’t ring like it used to anymore—
It’s just too **** big. And we are much too small.
In our opinion: all those hitchers wear
Their hearts on their sleeves
If they think they can get anywhere.