Wednesday, November 21, 2012

i don't want a sky.  
there's too many.
i don't want a guide.
there's too many.
if i don't spit, 
people will be happy with me.
i want to spit
with my tongue and lips.
it has sound it goes 

Friday, November 16, 2012


just a minute left
before i must wash my face off
and climb in the kiln
with my glasses on.


my insides
are in a shark
that's tucked in
my thorax

deep in the eyes of
informed witnesses
a cloudy ribbon
obstructs my work

that is
what i intend
to make you see
so you can
convince me

Thursday, November 15, 2012


voice beat its way out
with beak hardness

taking a long time
lessens all chances

the conversations
of kin-like fellows

kids still bury
time capsules


this is how they are, now.

the clot of them makes a body
that walks quickly without thinking.
its brain drops out in eyebombs 
that spray blinder visions on impact.

in the rug pieces of glass 
and food exist together. 
they would do the same in the mouth 
and maybe in the stomach, 
but through a latter threshold they become enemies.  
only one makes the body do something nice, 
like grow.

but weird elements
can interchange 
in some body-building
such as The Game of Cootie
though it doesn't have to be a game.
any part of any game can be
handled as a whole.
my draw four icon card
my ten green chinese marbles 
are complete.

here i am
stupid orant.  
looking cannot tell you 
when glass is the temperature 
of cell death
i finally learn in chemistry
after a decade of burning my fingers.
i get it
and go on burning my fingers
knowing that NO ONE can tell
with their eyes how hot glass is.
this is an EVERYBODY deficiency.
someone has to
hand me a glove
before i make
a connection to put
between my fingers and glass.

pieces like this are too many to put right.
i will climb out of the clot later,
when i am ready.

its head is down 
through the blowing trash
that food is taken out of.
its ears are closed to the wind. 
the invisible ground 
is shifting in clips
under drifted images.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012


i named this
before i started.

the hidden parts
lifted out by alto factions.
singing reading.

many walks are down and back.
pushing into the wall
of a house.  bottom three feet
known, a shallow wooden washpool.

give over the big book of
bloodlet languages.
it's meet.  it's right.
it's dynamite under a friend's pillow.
it's lit, i lit it.

when the short laborer
beats his chest in the story,
i imagine the sound of 
the breastbone cracking
before heart massage
before they call it.

Sunday, November 4, 2012


cast a stomach out 
for feeding.
this is the wilderness:

know it. lick it like a friend.

i sleep in my belly during.
thumbs plunged 
into my throat
and to them 
my esophagus talked.
i was moving up.

the filled occipital 
burial place
is even hockable.  
i know          i know
i see what i've spit 
it looks pretty.

contained hurl works.
chewer parts.
restless muscle
cleans knuckles to a shine 
it crawls back        
packed with land salt.

that's a signal: now lumber down to awake.
oh flames.
pet those out.
close the mouth.