angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.

I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.

Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******* shot, a picture that explains my disease.

The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.

Not an amulet, an off white vertebrae; bone.
Brass wire, a loop at one end.
It bends as to make sure this will fit.

A gauge that measures mesmerization,
And we both must get along, but
Not because we're not tough enough:
Most of us aren't soft right yet.

So many stiffs, folly after folly.
The whole carful of loose cadavers,
Dangling, their feet hang with wet snow
And carnage,

Not even musk deer pop up,
They've all gone. Roosting in a parabol,
With X's sprayed to their groins.
Burning pop couples

Doing it like laboratory mice. Capybaras
Hiss, my own burnt blood is also
Flocculating.

Turn the cup upside down and
See the fire's balmy lachrymal opaque
Moss while it does not drip.

This is the story of man you asked me about;
Devoid of a muzzle, fur onto his chest; coarse
Hair in a garland.

It is the God of a tool that buzzes into the night.
A plateau for this most sensible study.
We feel another coming.

And when you awoke, your larval tongue
My eye mush, a song of verse and melancholy.
This half list of greatness, a tally we both wish to see.