The FBI are secretly fibbing, like a folly mob
beyond the air, & what exceeds what is seen
as if we all need Bausch & Lomb? Visual scare.
Have you ever heard the sound of shivering weights,
or shivering waits, of those that mumble 'neath their
breath at the tipping point, breast fuming like
a motor-mouth’d cueball without an open-end
to enter, or the unifying of a dodderer’s confusing
assurance that "sets the eyes" like the way
one would set a table? Who would have known
that the porch is presenting itself as a welcoming
target. Bless my heart! Bless yers. Bless years.
Old bodies as confused as war-bombs, today
feels like regiments, a training of the mind,
or of a body, like floating ballerinas, or the
shaped-dimensions of athletic cheerleaders that
suddenly fall & bump their knees. Mark Twain
is the prince of the air. One day I will again be
an American. One day the fields will not have to
sigh. One day Circumstance will be lead into a
gliding Luminescence. My legs 'shuffle' like
Porfyrius, or the language in a Shakespearian text
of which charms & makes one yearn.

[Throughout The Poem]

Throughout the poem
there are pauses,
like right before a storm,

too ghastly to explain,
or not at all. Safety exists
within sorrow--

how I have felt this knotted quilt
flapping over my heart
like a wind-blown bed-sheet

hanging out to dry
blowing in the oceanic wind,
like the arched back of a woman,

the weight of a puzzle, a fire
kindling, clothed by your
backbone, bright as silver.



Missing equations, to be imperfect,
burning and sizzling like beef
in grease. I hush
through the narrow of your
voice that I have never heard
but have seen blazing by my eyes
constricting my neck fashionably
stingingly-stirring out what you want
to function to remain like a catalyst
of our roots, newer figs to pick.
Re-arrange me like a chef shapes food.
Chiropract-icality reality. It is said that
the human being was invented in Europe
like everything else. Re-invent me,
touch me, Scandinavian Design me,
but not with your hands. I lift my
eternal head in song, untidily and
starved, and your eyes burst into mine,
bright-white and everywhere, like
gutting a pillow, or a cloud
of snowy innards.


Exclaiming Exclamation

of an exclamation point.

think of that exclamation point

flipped upside-down.
Did you see it

flip in your mind?
For me, the exclamation point,

at one point,
began spinning

like an out-of-control compass.
It is doing that now.

Until I think of it
as being frozen

solid. It then stops spinning
and begins to tremble.


"Getting" afloat.
Fairly heroic.

Walt Whitman bearded.

Sight. My eyes
are so green that when

I look at you, your face
becomes an emerald,

or like a meadow
that is so completely absorbed

in its color that
it catches in your throat.

Flowers never need

the sky is so beautiful

that even the windows
are in awe,

not letting me
see it clearly.

built into us, into our limbs,

my feet have bricked wells
built into them,

I fall into myself.


thick head of
your trendy shades,
I mean the shadows
beside you
and not
the shadows
under your
eyes, grape-colored,
bruised-like, when do you
ever sleep? O the power
of youth,
how it feels to be
with desperation,
the urge to fall
face-down on
The Urge Of.

This is not a poem for a reader
so stop what you are doing—

invite the Blank into mind
as you would a guest.

There is no use in digging up the
cultural contex of
frequently-wronged margins.


Made trails with my finger
in the dirt in the eye of the dirty dirt

a strip of circular stickers
reminding me of the tentacles of an octopus

an encircling octopus shoots out The Inky
vision decreases shade sunlight

like the curve of a seahorse's tail

The tongue can often slice like catfish scales

I will settle for the trail that you
have walked if I cannot have any of you.


I am more tired than America. Lungs dry, but fire in
the soul like a blazing landfield, high fevers in the wind,
nothing is more in control than females. I was told today
that I am a hologram. The sky is tired, the sky is dry,

worse than the Jurassic era, and everyone will soon say
that every city is okay, but rather is filled with terror.
Angry boar-pigs abound, worse than dirty fingernails,
sluggish snails. Thoughts blinking off and on like an arcade

room, like a designist dream despite being deceived by
the design, like "the perfect child" that becomes a victim of
harrassment at nine and then is on trial by the age of twenty-five.
How quickly the tides change! no strings attached to chalk-dust,

the way the flick of a cigarette butt sparks like a "human star."
Everything is possible, as clean as perfume-air, do not let
sadness hold you. Pry it out, pry it out of you, like fragments
from books. Let the door that you enter into be the door that

keeps you from entering into deeper issues. There is nothing
more fruitier than ovaries. There is an embassy of words in
my head. I am too talkative at times like a puppet, and maybe
these are the walls to hide behind, like the mouth of a ventriloquist.


The et cetera
is like the bright light
at the end of the tunnel.

I am an et cetera
at the bright light
at the end of the tunnel.

So still and quiet
that either you do not
see them or you have made
an error that does not need
to be corrected.