what will you do with these last few weeks?
Moon-shaped alien beetles in the wood chips
it’s like playing chess against yourself with all literature looking over each player’s shoulders
I got nothing inside me.
The act of cutting is this work’s spiritual unity
thinking it & feeling it are totally immediate
the Boston strangler must’ve had huge hands
his unabashed fascist
I want what’s not inside there.
Dreams that suffer second-order revisions
crazier than a shithouse rat
it is the object of that longing (that makes fragmented
we have nothing to know but knowledge itself
I give you Oscar de la Howitzer
the Word that transcends knowledge in perfect being
“Shayla was my angel,” said Ashleigh
I don’t repeat—I am repetition
because of a story about a Native American tank commander
why is there an almond in here?
Grammar draws attention to itself here
be the handsomest ghost in the city.
Ski dogs bark the shin up the trail
I killed him again—he’s never been so dead before in his life!
The belly is tight & excited
I found myself crying, looking out the kitchen window
archangel Moronai whispers sweat nothingness
push the legs, the tired knees, twice as fast
machine wash cold
what’s the matter, darling? You look white as a sheet! Sheet!
Kid, you look like the mailman
couldn’t drive a sharp stick up a dead dog’s ass
I’ve got to invent all history for myself—backwards
Is deafening is deafening
Karl Marx term papers $20/hr.
The Cream of Country hits Kitty Wells
Karen is half Korean.
The guy who lived there was an artist
scream playful omens without tact
use what you can use what you can
pour a glass of shit, please
I get the keys confused between her house & mine
listening to The Black Saint & the Sinner Lady
only made a mistake by accident
they have no equity & then some
snapping around like an animal trap
smirked sadly, invading like seppuku
don’t know shit from shinola
I don’t really want things afterwards to make more sense than they did at the time
showering: being born is bright, not dark
I’m no one’s rock star; 1000 anti-identities
sometimes I imagine myself with breasts
shooting hoops like smack—hi & mighty
Eric Dolphy, various men who sang like angels through their horns
out of my head & out of my hat
the amazing Bud Powell at Carnegie Hall
smile for the picture, gorgeous.
Jimmy Tylenol Hangover Cure
see green changes in my mind
who wrote movie scripts for the Army
blind drunk & time pissing away in my jeans
can I say that I’m learning the accordion?
They have a genuine something…an authenticity
10,000 terracotta warriors & me
my words are further apart than they used to be.
Tapered to a pointed cough; a look of bitter erection
the band members at last for one purpose together
pain in my jaw & scalp: two tenths
living the life isn’t cutting the cord?