I’M FILLED WITH STRIPES

i may have to flip over my own bowl in order to have an all-out domicile.
language is what i do with my tongue and my other tongue, licking out
the bowls of others clumsily, and salivating very inappropriately.
in a sonagram, some thing i could later say is seen.
i hear myself later saying it and i can see it but i can’t read it.  instead i see two colors
overwarming and sliding away from me, sliding across ice on the melt made by their last fever.
dying heat.  an utterance that rotoscopes me: previously sunken, i now see,
beneath the underside of the hardened cortex of the living world.

PILE

saying “no
i have a name
i have a flag
and a cramp”
the grey girl
lady grey
lady with a groping fearful silence
finding the stump
the stump that will help her neck
it wasn’t really a neck
to begin with
her usurping is arrogant
the mental leap she might make
in two or three years
to sit

you are making a fold
and men break down
and hug corpses before their deaths
i stand in deafening sprawl
with my eyebrows up
in a seat of stocks
in a field
with a priest
watching an actor
the only actor
lonely lonely
lonely adventures

i think she moves her blindfold
in quiet
i think there are minutes
before her act
i mean axe
her stump stumpy neck
and looooong awkward arms
hanging on the floor
hugging through the tower
to floating hell

we climb
the adventures
to have interrupting
to serve a goal
i mean


(written in collaboration with Paul Clark)

FLURS

lay down this frozen plant.
scrape it across me.  froe.