I stroll among wounded merchants’ daughters. What to buy? What to wear? The questions dreadless enough. I take them down from their posts. Heart cuff, woodpecker wing, suit-so-sorry. News of the repeating, damned repeating. Circles the sky. Once I tried crooning and fell apart simply. The girls in slit skirts made an art of revealing….
1. His camera absorbing the veld to expose its slow, tectonic motion, to let the inevitable gazelles graze the film as he rests easy, sleeping in emerging wheat . . . 2. Six years they coexisted in his case, symbiotic within silver slivers, as if forsaking faith in days to date in the negative. 3….
for J.L. Thanks for your fan letter—I’ve built a shrine. I was up all night thinking of you up all night studying my use of slant and internal rhyme in A Shoemaker’s Dystopia. By line 317 the scheme I fear is obvious, so I was giddy as salmon at spawn that you found my little…
I’d Really Rather Be / In Authentic City for ukulele and voice Authentic Cowboys, authentic cats. Authentic clowns in paper hats. Authentic mountains, authentic lakes. Authentic clouds, authentic fakes. An authentic breeze luffs the sail, parts the hair on your authentic head. Your life you live authentically, Your death you die, authentic, dead. Call us…
Among the fossil fuels structure stands, clearly: crude, it burns; but refined— into frou- frouiest lace, or the baroquest and most willowy affectation in snowflakes —how ever so much more quickly the flames go. A standing house is a standing invitation to the match, with each gable, twilled turret, or fantastical arch floating on air,…
A bell is gonged, the body of a girl curled up inside it, a town grown wild, dogs sniffing skyward— gong, gong. They listen all night for the girl to fall, her stomach to growl, or is it a foot in a mindless gallop, snorts of delight as the gods take up the virgin-offer, or…
Another day of hair in my food. Another day of being cheated, Overlooked. Another day of nausea. I play Beethoven: Symphony 9. The violin simmers for an instant, And the cello is the instant, And the timpani, The timpani comes crashing. My stomach turns its peach pit to the moon! The sound says I am…
Becomes a layer, means a look A tilt my skull to better Seesaw from this to back To finishing for a kiss To lean on the fall of your hair My thumb and forefinger Like the rain Pooling gain by plurality.
Once a whiff, once a flint, the shifty skystuff blinds me on five sides. I take icefuls of noise and gas rounding out an inside. I prepare the upper reaches by kissing distance back into my skull like a transparent worm. Smoke keeps returning a little freckled, so I use it too. Throw it up…
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