My language vanishes
Now only my breath and the sun

The street signs are blank
to celebrate the death of words
The end of poems

The black birds swoop through
clock tower faces
My eyes chase the steam
out of stained glass

I dream of the death of words
Of a sweet reckoning
A silence like music

Why scrawl any
pattern or
family of bitemarks
or caresses

The illustrator has
children of his own
and loud red
wine to waste

Visiting your birthplace
in your example
suggests antique
weaponry

Through sublime sense
Puritan watershed

I come around
with the back of
my face dragging in
some green water

The cabin is turned over on
the back of Alabama

Red mud rises and I search
drawers of swimming
Surface laws

Who says I can't
Hold you in avalanche wirework

When you name a serial of apologetics
becoming clear only in reverse

Isaac Dust, born of the dust and returning to dust
Handing over the Bill of Terrorism to the judge
Letting frozen phrases slide around my tongue

into moonlight babies beds
into sawdust halls of law

into realms of embroidered cobra's heads
Who call my name through dense blue forests
on our imaginary continent

There was a game whereby
we stood against a blank frieze
to catch small orange marbles
thrown by a devil who stood

balanced on a border the
border shook like water it
separated the end of the
world from the beginning

You had to throw back the marble
to disrupt the border
and the devil might fall off
but he always caught it

There was a game ...

In your very pure mouth ( god save it )
clanked metal mouthpiece
by cold water in a strange basement
or perhaps even less

Morning doves catapult
leukemia
Astro goth acid wars
White fire black ****** mania

Could we just kiss
right here this September
not have to wake up
or sleep ever again ?

see how I arch my back ?
I'm poisoned

bones do what they want
my spine is skeletal quetzalcoatl

as the one dash zero pattern commences
agile fingers shoot from the surface
now the new **** logic locks
onto hidden nutrients

the rising curtain
body of the dull hour
arms hanging about the roots
and the rocks on the electric river

they line up and burst in
sugarfruit unison
returning to exile with those
who had weathered exile with them before

we initiate the dream of a heartless choir
everything greased and ready to go
nothing crawls nor begs mercy from god
and we erected the temple of the wasps

's favorite meal is not children as you may expect
it is old people, the elderly near death
they taste better to him
he fantasizes their whole lives with every bite

whose heart like bottles or ransom clinks against
itself eating the useless parts of its own stomach
rotors of bone hum about revenge
the earth clones pale enigmatic cyanide

my spawn sweat bourbon and bleed sweet milk
I'm the Tower
Look Look
let us hold eachother here until the dark blossoms

into an invisible canine snarl
crushed by feathers at a
tomb-encrusted countryside
wax swans bleed from

their eyes and bulls inside run
in circles around ancient ice prisons

Look a clock
century weary mariners
gape in disbelief
at a yawning dawn
of cadmium
on the tongue of
a bristling free roaming
continent of
gothic salt

When the brink vanishes
the furnace swallows its
mother's pastoral tongue
which then echoes through
one thousand years of dead mouths

Beauty flings its severed head cavalier
over the mob who are nippled toothed
and penised maggots of war

Through my window
from my black scaffold
at the furthest edge of the orchard
we'll meet in secret

I open up smooth channels from cobwebbed
cellars to emerge at lake bottoms

Mine is the legacy of century old wasps trapped
in glass light fixtures attached to plaster
ceilings in Hong Kong and Siberia

I remember ancestors trapped in ice and
amber death screams preserved perfectly
eyes fixed on eternity

where spiders lurk unbothered
over the ******* of women warriors
and lions have eaten every man tempted

we cannot imagine the war engines they
eventually will create to unhinge us
from our proud and complacent positions

from which we perpetually ****

the heavy heart
petrified
made smooth by sand

i have the heart of a predator
but i'm docile now since
the moon dogs me

i have made camp at the top
of the glacier and
the wolves smell me

i will write you my letter
now
before the fire goes out

you're always there
in  my blind spot
deaf and obscene

naked covered with *****
you vaporize when I
address you

screaming mad

i have never beheld such a monster
You are my ghost on evenings when
the air is as thick as white fat

all i can hear are jet engines
and drunken
Howling

I'm smoke
An approaching moment of ecstasy
everything is broken
and is made a victory

A dire message whose last
lines bleed away into crossing floods
impossible stillness breaks and
prays dazzle

There is no cure for paranoia
except a loaded firearm

I paint the war
It is laughter and invention

with loud clicking gasps
buried in the seed of fraternity