Living like the weatherman,
hooked to the wand of my mucosa.
The streetlights illuminating
what they don’t want to:

shadows teeter at the outside light-spray—
what is an anomaly’s animosity
but black icicles, bluffing
in bass-smog—no, I mean:

let all passwords die.
Let taboos remain empty.
I mean, caresses of silk that ache
for their own touch.

The daffodils backfire.
The looking-glass becomes
a shame-maker, misnamed.
This ruinous work of nostalgia

toys with me, leaving me
like a cowardly lion in a vast solitude,
left standing like a grim reaper
in a windless wildfire, mute-slowed,

funny faces stalemated, but I can still
make the jukebox react without
coinage, like the bellhop making
the deaf react, like an earthquake

penetrating pressure-points,
making the graveyard bones
clatter together—fingertips through
a wounded punchbowl.

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