At night, a Christmas garland brightly lit —
Milky Way, spine of the sky.

I knew
Friday night TV light
Trailer kids
Bottle-rocket sizzle
Quick gravel crunches
Giggles behind a fender.
 
Day-night amalgams
Video poker and ****** fog
Sidewalk thermal vent nap-takers
Torch lighter hisses
Boulders sublimated to smoke

Toe-curling sigh
And crying at the dawn.
 
I want to know
Tree house daydreams
Kitchen curtain springtime
AC hum in iced-tea twilight
Spinning
Zoysia grass between babies' toes
You laughing, and I:
 
The mad man, white beard laughing,
Praying in the shrubs
For the breeze to move the curtain
So that he may see.

water drops
     drip on rocks
          from the tops
               of tomahawks

Remember black winds of November nights,
rattle your bones, chill your marrow,
quiver time's arrow and rip the world's white
veil from a skeletal face. Throw
it. Watch it fold, caught on the cathedral,
high church of the ossified faithful,
whose whispered prayers will calcify us all.
Unveiled, the world is bones without a soul,
rattling as it grinds, creaking as it turns.
A flag flies / Calcium collects in urns.

I must precipitate their pain;
When I pass,
their faces close like shutters before the rain.

Girl, with tousled hair, sleeps but swiftly turns the stair of her dreams;
Returns to reality.

Girl, with tangled thoughts, lets the room spin until she can piece it together like a puzzle-
She drinks ***** like a butterfly would nectar-
Starts with the corners, takes her time.

Girl, with tepid headache, sits up and observes a washed-out lunar denim blue clean her baby pink wall;
Snow fall.

People only mesh well with kerosene, each and every human so flammable,

It's a wonder we don't all set ourselves on fire...

But yours truly did it last night

Swallowed two liters of lighter fluid and chased it with jet fuel,

Ate the box of matches you keep in your purse

And burnt away the last good parts of my stomach.
///
I slept like a baby for two hours,

Not enough for lectures on the carbon cycle or dada mathematical deconstruction,

So I drifted off to more sleep, and slept to dream of the Six Gallery.

Wishing one or two poets would gain fame in an age of pineapple vodkas that no one is drinking for the taste,

But for gravity to pull through their very thin blood stream and feel at one with the party.

It's monotony—

I'll die and everyone will love me then, so where are they while I'm alive?

That's the joke of mourning,

It's the reason I resort to self-immolation,
It's the reason I dream everyday for fame and do nothing about it.

It's why Frank O'Hara got out while he could, dying with the true images of New York City

And not living to see it destroyed as I now have.

Emperors and Legionaries alike, take up your arms and help me overthrow anyone who dictates verse and meter.

I aspire to **** a fascist with my bare hands.