i punk the bones
of dead poets.
thier words
burn
in the flames
of inward illumination.

The leaves of their
speaking
is so dry

They stain me  with
dreams of
the locus eaters.

i a prophet
a locust eater
rearrang ing
all
the letters in the room


i walk
through
the sounds
of their stopping minds
moths
flapping from
my nose
just like alien characters
that flicker
like
a smile
on the west
face
of a great pyramid.