You hold my hand at a distance by grasping my wrist in two fists
and I swing my arm with determination, to swat the fly
that circles beneath your pupils
but it dips and swerves and palpitates in anticipation,
causing you to blink--
I wish your eyes stayed open
“slowly”
you said
“slowly”
I laughed and gave up
then sleep overtook me
and whatfor? a brief intermission
I was only really scratching an itch
for you.

A wasp flew in when I left my screen-door ajar, and I blew on it, saying
"go away."
It's clinging to my balcony.
Now, in agitation, knows I hold nothing for it.
And the dogs bark, confused by entwined seasons.
Wind shouts with orders “Combat your deaths!"--
but I acquiesce to darkness in my mind; waiting for the summer
to submerge this springtime
which has momentarily come and outdone
winter.
Breeze carries, or generates, the wings, of my living
solace in the stinging tip of malice on that minute body
--ignoring tendrils which voice gratitude to day--
supplanting laughter with its ***** on down the road.
I want to see the child's face cry as it is initiated into suffering,
smile breaking as he comes to see its transience.
Then slowly I will look down. In shame, walking past this station
toward my exit
and
the street which bears your name.

We’re tying our shoes-- as we think about the day's gifts
          Holding strings-- curling ribbons with latent sweat
"I’'ve heard they’ll pull us through-- we tie around each box
          eyelets, through tunnels and catacombs."-- a shimmering luster abetting
beyond the sky.

Today we mourn those drained sausage-limbs at noon-time
     --(Sallow-cheeked mistresses and fortunes abounding
        for those who have time for such things.)

With tears
     --hiding the feelings of those who have none

                  slapping the ground.
We see
           every unfurling light
combine with blots of pity
                                                 to fortify prairie grass.

And I remember an old gravel highway that separates my family and church from geologic
build-up which the wind is slowly chewing.

I can't be with them-- like the western, sandy steppes of Nebraska,
     I can't hold water, and their loving nourishment sinks through me.
     My arms won't be like ribbons, in an embrace of the
dead’s remitting tendrils.
     As I lay outstretched on the Sand Hills, shielding my belly from the desert sun;
     boring water trapped in caverns under neatly wound sweat-bows and boxes
I, one day, too, cry emaciated tears.

     Surely, we are tethered firmly to the spool, dangling with
tensity on the tines of breath, shimmering, aloft-- but also, don’t forget:

We are fastened by a knot above our leather casing
     holding the body in-piece and being manipulated at once.
     We decorate the boxes, in which we are to lie
with wet, green ribbon, pulled through rocky soil by course, chapped hands.

The torrid slushing slosh and evening moondown temperature of green-boiled cauldrons
We drove—not we, just I
And, branches falling, found my way
Blind and in a roundabout
I removed my sheathened corpuscle
My metal encasement and violated the elements of fire
Sorrowful electricity and fate blots out all headlights
Those cares—those cars!
SORGESORGESORGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
You hold on, now
You keep trying
And I’ll be back

I
kept saying “I’m just glad no one got hurt,” last night when
I crushed a car driving a semi.
Just about to sleep
on the road by the sugar factory in my hometown
when I heard a horn honking and people yelling at me.
Before I heard aluminum bend at once.
I recounted it to spectators after the fact--

IN MY DREAM--
it was this
yelling, this
honking
inDICTED the victims in my
mind.

That road was endlessly wide.

Their car could have moved enough to miss me;  they wanted to
get hit.

For the insurance, maybe.
Who knows?

IN MY DREAM
people get right out of smashed cars.
Below your driver’s side door giving silent, dis-
approving glances within seconds of your palm-
shielded face;

After it had started to get dark
I remember how my dad had
our truck down filling up
on the corner with
scraps of steaming
food.

I noticed potatoes
cut into halves and
fourths piling in and flowing through the broken
tailgate. I knew
where that truck was going:
back to the country.

Where I was told to park my truck and RUN. in-
stead of
crash into the city. Then I saw the insurance adjuster, ask-
ing him,
“hey,
how much will it cost.”

“Some

number that doesn’t surprise me.”

I walked to the corner, past a car
dealership which doubled as a
firework
stand
in the summer
when I was young
and still does.

Not every word is a masterpiece--
nor every strand
of beach.
alone a cabana-
canopy of sky
surrounding earth:
the atmosphere breeeeeeeeeeeeeeathes
our names into
ocean
and ******
on the ground, as
well.
with dangling-*******
clouds
brimming on the horizon;
what a glorious day!
what a shining moon-shine
standard evening
shining!
wonderment of wonders
shone a seat by flashlight
to the theater alone
alone
alone
the stars are laughing as
we point above
our cabana
and salivate.
without knowing
it
the beach shudders its
******
and we catch *******
with our eyes.

You are such a nothing
a blank canvas
an etching
i squeezed onto my fantasy shelves
gutting the plans
to posses your Rorschach
ethereal squalor of meaning
and threw the world's paint
on top of you
absent,
transparent draw cloth
translucent and opaque at once
femme fatale, bejeweled betokened
breath
and plaything
i want to whack
a mole

Self-righteous being