Another Death

having died on the way home

watched rippling darkness

through night air gritting

window panes. a man possibly

pantsless shuffles back and

forth on the beach. having

played the demonic role of kali

i die like a red dress in

flaming passion flowers brittle

summer leaves torched up like

a book of hours, quit with aplomb.

To the Bachelors and their Artifacts

un
make me
un do me

see
how use
less becomes me

even
in shadow
i outstrip you

cellular spam
aches
unwanted
communiques
frequenting the lower
sciatic regions
sierra of
vulnerability

sorea
(a made
up word)

arboreal
pain

from fissures
psychic gouts
fleshly vocality
parochial issue
would seem
none of your
business

except for
constant flux
out of limbs
fingertips

transference

into word

because she had a desire to eat her fingertips and to chew the filaments that infiltrated all the little telephones in all the little houses of all the people of the wired city. because the filaments had swift magical properties allowing them to penetrate the ears of those who listened too long to their own voices, or who listened to prophetic media blitzes propagated by charismatic priests whose revolutionary zeal outran their own sexual proclivities. because she had lovers who shaved within an inch of their lives every morning so that they would appear clean, pure and unstrung while the village recreated itself upon the bodies of ancient children; and the mothers lit candles that smelled of petroleum and medicated bandages and set their candles on altars made of old candy and all the melted candles lit for all the ghosts whose burned faces melted into a desert junkyard of pink and brown prophylactic limbs and hands; and fathers turned out their children and fed them to their burials in transit in the sky, without ritual and in silence; children who in life were deemed briefly gods to obey voices in the wires hidden in their knuckles, implanted in their silver teeth and glistening even in their golden armour; because there was "reality" everywhere to be had, and everyone knew this and privately longed to be surreal, and longed furthermore to be loyal to their leads and to the sheep that they tended in the gated pastoral communities of their dreams. because this is the code to be cracked, the recipe for our daily fiber ration, a heavy loaf made of reality dough, kneaded with small wires, shrapnel, butterflies and menstrual blood, seasoned with skin grafts and eyelashes, scalpels, barbie dolls and the email of the dead, cc'd to no one, justified by prayer.

The Problems (Cont'd.)

i spoke before of missing. the sections missing, and sectors, whole corridors
-
cities lacking. this is not the problem. pouring presence into it, some thing
-
constitutes being on a day in June in which butterflies were infusing the air
-
and then a story went like this about how I had such a sad life, there were pent
-
up emotions, and a search for purity through wondering and eating. mind, there
-
are constant letters and the shuttling of likes. what I thought became clear then
-
before i killed it. there was an incident at walmart, i bought some race off the shelf
-
split into two indefinitely, causing chained reactions. thought hormones excreted
-
by the brain, a gland of mysterious profusion and causality but that's not it either

When listening to catch with intimate hooks
a drift of King James or a coroner conversation
take learned literary syllable as seeded fluff
to velcro; then in order to please, assemble
miniatures in the cabinet of ungainly light

track the order of days mathematical procedure
measuring the lack of presence and absences cut

to singular, grow collectively, poems substitute
for rabbit hunting, snares apply to mind theorems

of emotional shuttle, instability, flow, stoppage
so say junk, river, longing, preciousness, spew
liquid paper, page down, right, backspace and to

say where to put, why, underlying, consequences,
fit to identity with paper tabs, adjust collars
sleeves, head, to hang along the trembling seams

Leftwinging birds ground silt to halt and fluff. mistaken shins sluffle off to lancaster. Three lights signing burgers for a special sauce, wherein to find simples to light the way, provide pali alms. So you might take them all in a train to your bedtime arras (wing sheep back and forth sleepless). So you might wake up hurting, and attempt mythology-murder, or quantify heather strung for shuttle dyes and coming.

See, you, this, might the household wall-eyes buckle, grift and turn to coffin lids. salting down the hands, the fingernails. Numinous parking lots carry ads between the lines. Permits to graze on gravel. And being like machines but nothing like, stare and wonder at the forthing.