Each of these stones
is a neck

chain, is a blood
bowl.  Each

of these spider

is retroactive. Is

static.  Each
individual lion

is a limb,
including the head.

The head is where
everything goes

wrong.  Each
time I try, I fall

further into the pit
of me, the epitome

is apostasy.  
Let there be

& nobody

gets hurt each
time I think

this is it
there’s another

need for
something outside

of me made

by half a wit’s
endless brevity

anomie, lethargy
moving in

with their

for some time
off time

to go time
to say hello



    Don’t distaste
my phrase & fray me
these ways. Don’t groan me
the fire code while I’m
broken from toe
holds. Don’t nod
at my desktop
& tell me I’ll
jaywalk. Don’t
soak up my limestone while
you sell me a snow
cone. Don’t spit on my quips while
you’re nipping my grip.  Don’t cup
my thrupple while calling us
supple.  Don’t grind
my rind while we’re brining our
swine.  Don’t
tread on yourself.  Don’t
not say you say it don’t
spray the shark repellant
at the anti-life
equation which doesn’t add up
to anything being said
without doing the do
not the did or the was isn’t
is the do-over that
never did nothing
but veer.

The Reflex

The politics
of doxxing. The atomic
option for the lucky clover.  The
lonely bruise you try not to lose.  The rag as it covers
your brittling bones.  The right to loan

whatever’s left
to you, dear reader.  The fleeting firsts for the forking
of the tongues.  The love of the clubs
when there’s dubbed
manifestos.  Isn’t that Bizzaro
on the masthead?  Every little thing
you do is law magic.  Question mark
over by the empty park.  
Rubber mallets for your knees
please don’t hide cards
in my shoes i need them to burn full
velvet, silk, &
satin.  It burns a monosyllabic
path through my vocabulary
quiz written as a multiple-choice choose-
your-own downfall windfall against
opportunity.  Neither brawn
nor brain, I’ve got a partner
in nobody & nobody’s ever
thought to wonder
why I wander
when I meant
to make amends.


Your face shatters
in a puddle.  A bubble
balancing on a blade
of grass like
a question.  Never
say ever but don’t
sever the connection
betwixt the soul
& the body of water
that will drown
the body.  The mind
body problem is only
a problem if you have
a body.  Why the long
faceplant?  Facets
of disco balls
making constellations
in a party you never
attended in
1977 like time’s arrow
buried under a Forever
21.  Last night
on earth
a few people
fell asleep on the train
& woke up in a station
buried at the
bottom of a tar
pit just outside
of Los Angeles.  Here
there was
a Tower Records.
Here hair metal
went meta & became
a communal piece
of property.  Put
this sidewalk sofa
under the ultraviolet
light & you’ll
see some things
that defy scientific
ride the sofa
into the middle
sweet home where
candles melt into stubs
on jewel cases
& the sheets haven’t been washed


I Am Am Alone

Without a paddle or even
a conception of what paddle is

Where is friend?  Where is
anybody?  Everything that was

& will be in my book
until I am woke

by drum-sounds in the early

The duck isn’t real
nor the water but

a water of the mind
To the sea

with me  Where is
wind?  I’m am

a plant a cone
in the shrink

crinkling candy wrappers
as the ships

are listed & your
canoe is not

among them because
you ate

the paperwork
Where is lamp?

I love
dark & night

is when I sleep
without a friend

without a skeleton
with just

snoozing &
snore  Where is

cap?  Gas

mask?  Who
these crumbs

Get sleepy.

Get sleep

to float all the way
to the octopus’s

hydrothermal electric plant
powering a nation

of cracked phones

God is 7

A raven who pecked
Johnny’s nose hid
in the honeycomb
when the milk
was skimmed.  He was
fortified with iron
& eight essential
oils--motor, canola,
olive, snake, bear,
crude, elegant &
coconut to facilitate
the trotting of the
destriers as they
scour the land for the one
who can untie the plait
in your topknot
like a freak with a fetish
for rubbing bald
heads with jojoba
until they glisten beneath
these geoengineered
weather balloons
built to save us
from our worst
impulses.  Your superpower
is pretending
to be dead
which is more useful
than it would seem,
in this economy.  
There has never been
a bass player
or an atheist
for president but at least
every bursar has
within themselves a secret
birdcage filled
with parakeet excrement
& a copy of the locket
you gave to your
first girlfriend,
its hinges rusted shut
against your enclosed
school photo
from back when your hair
was so lush & majestically

from (C)OVID'S METAMORPHOSIS, Book the Fifth

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