I remember loving a father I drank with, wonderful warmth beneath brain tissue and woke up stammering in the back seat—“no officer, I wasn’t there, I” left only grammar, “those were sentences assembled by a man in sleep.”

It isn’t true about the complex, I even told him “his absence I love,” that I never knelt or clasped hands means nothing. He knows it and the beads of glass in my coat pocket.

That warm lofty sleep left my head misshapen, I saw January for what it was, they didn’t even call it an accident.

a poem from august

more science
the freeways have bland
mockeries not pot

a freeway is slate milk for
the nurses on leaded sleds
for the homes with dashboard
counter space
and steel-belted foundation

make it sweat, it eats it
it noses its grunt to yours
and rows cogs says repeat it

this and else have
monetized identity where
alcantara is hello, I don't
lease or it's him or
my job means please
this pedal is as mine as foot

and the windows' things behind it also
mine is where my rac throws
a shadow where I see your face in mirror only
looking towards mine:
hewn stone and thrown and throne and
gone for tickled plans,
I'm hairy
locomotion does a hell of a job

nouns developed

I bet no one saw that: the few
pink petals still intact in tree against
yellow, garrulously lit windows, capped by
rain-stained concrete which conveniently was
also poured into a form named planter, wherein
pooled descended deciduants

memory produces no image until finger
snaps the shutter
in which case amalgamation becomes sentience:
image concedes to exist as only one word
operating amidst a sentence

THIS is what just HAPPENED:

Two windows centered upon TWO adjoining walls
threw raging streams of light to the
center of the room,
where I nearly EXPLODED
in unkempt manumission
these SAME words
trace roots of neuro-electricity to the
effect that MY IDENTITY HAS
BECOME INCENDIARY

I have achieved compacency,
and you can too. By simply abbrogating
the front part of your head
against a wall of brick, the resistors
and transistors will rattle out of your
ears like Legos from tupperware,
allowing you to realize your TRUE POTENTIAL
Where there's smoke there's fire, and the ink
clouds this page like a BARN BURNING. But
apply now! This violence is available for a
limited existence only! And, due to high demand
expect to wait three to four weeks before
burning alive. We have room for only one
customer at a time to starve on our stage, so please:
be patient.

And lastly, be warned: this existence may complete
you like a pair of strangling hands

pushing off

have you written anything so beautiful in its
infancy, so alarmingly formed
you cooed its ink and smacked its ass before
slurring its name en mass

you have: you know the danger in daring to
let the pen subside, of effacement

in this manner the world has toppled over
and I am laughing hysterics like
buttons in the dryer that
scare the dog

like up by up-left is
code for
that's where the handle is--that's how
come their eyes to the ground
that's in which delusion is
so often found

maybe it feels like everyone is going in
circles
because we are
and I can only cackle childishly--
faster! faster!
let's see what this fucker can do

untitled (so far)

wherefore graphite
wherefore
so much intimacy
so many dead, blustering leaves
caught revolving in the door

"at night you lay turning like a door on its hinges"
mewithoutyou said that

can't we see the glass we bore our shoulders into
that polished slate miming the way we
push our prey

both exits open to fire
the choice isn't one at all but
differing extensions before wall


within or without


door seems to say both
door insists it will glide upon this
cool graphite for a long time
or at least until we tire of forever

at least until an anger mounts and
this sledge is driven through shattered glass to what

contact?


this glass has lost its transparency for
the lips it stained
and caught against its breadth

there is no other to abstain from
no intercourse is close enough to keep
anyone from a lone breath

inking an effigy
pies the sill of pens
in turn, betrays the
sentiment that scent
portends