The apple ate itself.

The seed within

grew like an ingrown toenail—

intercourse of the interior.



excisionable sterling screens do not hide behind what you feel will force you into a shoal
let the scalawags stand out "test yourself: whose lips are these?"

Roman balance or Romance balance which one?
the streets are plenty busy Israel is being cut in half by knives of imprudence
cab drivers are like emergency responders meanwhile
even a "possible asteroid" seems corporate

let's find the mountaineers who murder for the sake of blood
put them in their tête-à-tête or be forgivable

you can take the exit history takes the exit water pipes being dug up in the city
this city cannot handle bitter cold weather sweat-laced roads malfunctioning
plumbing opening up the gateways trolly-tracks are now visible from underneath
is this 1909 all over again?

i celebrate by staying on my lawn the factories are feeding coughing
like incommunicable petitions what we mirror is what we become
understand the struggle understand the struggle fly from the struggle
feathered-like like the bombyx mori a bomb goes off money clings to smiling mouths
swallowing it whole marginal croons clogged legs Anne Waldman's voice-box

we are forced to be anchored ashore never let anyone know that you have won money
like Abraham Shakespeare who is feared dead this is the element of the world fear
fear underneath the umbrella underneath the skies there are downloads for that
just throw away all instinct


Imagine crunching into that rhinocerous
beetle. French braids in the mouth. Gold
-fish flushed, display your inward telegram.

This is a pop-up magazine, a way of
schooling or interferring with textbooks,
those that are unearthed, incarnations with

-out any new roots. This winter, my outer
-shape is like an Arctic Cathedral; a mental
catalyst, calloused by blister-rubbing words,

words & more words, like birds & birds,
like volcanoes in Japan. Our mouths.
Seething heretofore perfectionism, like wine,

my skull outlasting your skull, delivering
lectures to myself in a cold bedroom at
midnight with my hands clasped tightly.

I think, I am not a little boy. I am layered in
routine, thinking of beta carotene or old
Beta machines. The union of science is

problematic, as if caucasians are nothing
more than bleached Africans. What equals
yummy? swatted insects, unlucky fellows,

your favorite performance, prolonging.
Contrarywise, I like to know that people
are gleaming amongst Lord Byron

or being graffitied into the study of hope
& triumph. I want to get yanked up voluntarily
like sprouted weeds, show what roots still

remain, show what I am made of, the way
one has their hair pressed into shape with
netting. Momentum is always brimming, is not

a spot-light hog like the appearance of boiling,
but is like the uninterrupted listening of
parental affection guided by the voices of

the Victorian era. As fit as a fiddle, brittle.
What's a tree but a shower curtain, verbal
S-A-T. I sit. I now know my baitonik place

amongst what human speech consists of: SOUND,
like how Visual Sense is created from listening
to radios. Mental martial-arts.



Angels sitting
on a newel post
as if like
a portable cyclotron

slides away
like something slippery
like Flipper

must remain indifferent
There is an appearance
beyond Youth

entirely awry yet defining
forms of sincerity
Trifling ladies
grow annoyed by my whistling

Somewhere love swells
Each handwritten letter
is a form of breathing
The walls are as bare

as my body
like an empty snail-shell
I close the blinds
and listen to my heart

beating, seemingly
mustering the energy to
come right out of my chest,
turns into a chrysalis in the open air