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

Nietzsche wept.

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?