apnea

*here: to initiate

They say my nose beaks
like some bird kind;
Shove tanks of O &
spark* under my wings

I don’t complain, I think
I lack the faculties anyway
Chickens shit fear
of dying over death

Grope about slime
for your things
needed, sliding,
Emerge In Seeing Glass

Not feeling; seeing
Skin fisted open
Found varied shards
[in size and cause]

They trim,
what you hate
Never feel that blood
loss is negligible

They ask if the well is clear.
Why is there no answer?

It’s wrapped tight
around the throat so
that we are forced
to make these noises.

d'un chariot hippomobile

NOTÉ: BELGIQUE – SEPTEMBRE 1625 – 6:13 p.m.

finally it smells like something, like our parts, our plane [parallel]
some idiot has since scattered
around shanties as if it was some idea, aesthetically speaking

the lack of light, heels
my eyes exhaust overexposed & yours would if they were
less like the small tarts

of flap-dragon; the bowl on the table; torch light; hilly spans
we have touched;
where wine is frantic / walls ooze brown motif here but there

they are common men who drink brandy, scotch / not bourbon
and would have cindered these Pedantics.  oh, the brevity
one feels after well fed well clad and hung stocks of folk

but, even without sight,
I assure you, my friend, it was a time you would do well to keep
in fore- or hind- or whatever ways you are moved

when delirious with poison cup; I remember—
you stumbled but stayed well in their key

[with] his blue and lapping tongue / [many of] you will be stung /
[for] he snaps [at] all that comes / snatching [at his] feasts of plums /
snip! snap! Dragon!

polygamy

I thought about it then
brought them to meet my
parents. We were three
and arrived late at the club

where they were Sundays
A table for five set
under an awning
riddled with leaves;

vines. A white cherumbim
arced his urine from high
above the end plaza

Before I said anything
Donald put out his hand
and Juan his and suddenly
they knew my parents

We ate and charmed them
but somewhere near the flan
we told them our plans
and they stopped eating

Didn’t look at each other just
stared at us—jaws not slack
predictably so

She slapped down her napkin
We tried mind warfare
She threatened to take my money
that was really their money

And surprising no one
my father began to cry
because he knew my back
better than any part of me

They had already offered Juan
a managerial position
at the plastics factory
before the fact,

exposition—
false leaves off-
colored and lewd angels
one shatters with a hammer

We still thanked them
and rose to leave, on the way
the three of us stopping to
piss in the fountain.

untitled poem

file-buster
axe hand
taken to the lock
so sparks fly
at the plexi-
glass covered eyes
axe hand job
gold plated teeth
and lips make
gestures
flavored sugar
sour
waving at admirers
through
the prism
that is
in completely clear
if you had the time?
four hands are not
better
than two
that function fully

excavation—wholeness

kissing through a grate,
black holes
bring freedom through
suffering; the abandonment
of want.

crabby patties

how do you know all that you know how to really know anything at all?

the time again
is changing
and I feel we’re behind it
falling
faster
more intently
with purpose we aim our heads and
realize that landing
in a fault we cannot claim
hurts
so much
more
than the one we shell ourselves—
the meat that it gives will
sustain no life
but this one here.

from where, i do not come

in this place one finds everything
found anywhere else

but at the origin of things
there should
be a bold sense

its leaves spreading evenly
     and it sitting between them
     giving off light

even the unoriginal
will originate from greatness;
a source that is great only once

to me
this name means—land-
land-mass, mass-of-land—
into the treeline
is dark and familiar
inviting
to me

I see you speak spores fly from your mouth
settle on the solubility of inhibition;

what I hear
is not foreign—you point
and say: “the trees end there
let us settle this land.”

strawberry flavored eggs

I’m entertained with the thought
of a summer session

Julius’ month sounds ripe
and my mouth waters

that I would eat of no tree
until then.

as a conquest

you hold water and are as real as
your words that flit
about the page—a something
I feel inclined to drink of

the knowledge is worded
the truth is I do not know
how your tongue would make a sound
cooperating with sticky lips
to please all eight of the nine senses

twelve months out of the year
we play each other
thoughts
tallied through various passages
of time
so our existence feels un-mute,
traversing the scape
I have failed on—

to get it
is possibly to have gotten naught

but lost that high
plain breathing; your
expiration / inspiration

I must learn again
for the first time
an infant
whose old soul
has forgotten the way
to walk.