Wednesday, February 29, 2012


a late-steaming heap of late faces,
etc. thousands deep.  the ice pelts
they all wear, a substitution for air,
a substitution for being unheld.
i thought or knew that it could resolve,
the pile.  also the pile’s problem;
the information was waiting on me
in a different part of my mind,
but the port misaligned.
my mind moves.  it begins to sort
so quickly that it becomes a knife.
it may be the knife of us, now that i
am in the organform hill. but
i find myself in here without a schematic
of will, or of joints between
the spinning pieces that can
click into channels when they meet.
this is still.  the stillness is
misassembled complete.

Saturday, February 11, 2012


in sleep floated to the bottom of
the schoolhouse losing my air
opened my eyes and ran outside to the
thoroughfare and saw in the mid-distance
a cognate broadcasting handsignals.
wait for me, now.
let me wake to explain.

people are piles of
each other.  pervy occasions
of post-acquisitive hugging.
accidentally important.
i understand this,
tuned in to phantoms so that
i run into the sewers for a
legendary risk, chasing
it to the fabled light of
a dmz with cottages and
everlasting bullshitlessness.

it could be there, but i lose
the scent and regain consciousness.
listen to what it seems to say,
i always say.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012


i hollered and i cut my hair off to find
are there doors i’m missing where do
you keep all yours all the forms you are
subtly manipulating with bare fingers
on the unsterile table with poisons.
IN HERE while the day of someone
famous for partying is no longer than
my day and perhaps shorter for want.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

whisper the order to intubate

a guy's job is: crush the parasite
species for its behavior. with muscle.
at night he keeps standing up from bed
and walking into the kitchen,
sensing the light crashing out from the
chamber he makes of his hands all day.
the light hot enough.

everyone has killed a couple of
houses with moldy breath.
why exit the real? it is bent perfectly.
it is bent like a dancer running away

i’m not one to talk
about animals or viscid remnants or the
gala of running girls sinking into their
racewaters, a dream i had of thoracic
compression.  it’s only the
comprehensible edge.