something real,
tea
& Obits in the morning.
peter peter pumpkin eater
Poem:
In this light
I can see through your body.
Black Hills Indians wrapped your bones in arrows and feathers
for the day you make your exit, inspiring new battles in heaven.
Enemies sliced by the wit in your [hair].
You are a Sunday porch I could do nothing on
and feel like everything was happening.
Let me pull my hurricane move—
a move to turn your gilded fortress to shrapnel—
to windscorch your overbooked rickshaws,
melting your slippers into glass formula.
[Giddying] you [up].
Bursting your [pants]
into [black] shredded wheat.
AAAAAAH!
Andromeda Carnivora
envy of novas
zing your flesh across twilight.
Stay asleep
so the aircraft aren’t drawn to land
on the Christmas lights
crackling safety signals
from your eyes.
I saw you
panting in the oven of your skin.
Aren’t you tired of awakening next to lost armies?
Sick of people looking for jade in your nostrils?
Subterranean teeth-gnashing orchestra.
Zebra killer.
Flexed duchess.
Carved cha-cha-cha.
Zirconia sass rock.
I want the theater without the drama.
I want the opera without the soap.
Lay in the stillness of a fighting-saints fairy tale.
Your partner is here,
a frog in a coma of kisses.
You, dressed as wonder,
screwed me backwards
with your
dyslexic kiss.
Fairytale saints fighting a stillness.
Kisses of coma.
Here is partner your.
Wonder dressed you.
Backwards me screwed.
Kiss dyslexic.
Deadeye Dick
Kilgore Trout