POMEGRANATE REPUBLIC



Smoke clumps in sluggish bunches,

taxicabs creep abreast,

   	cetaecean.



Platinum smell of snow,

the peal of the alarm

clock, the sound of my own heart

   	aging.



Tyrants in the winter,

all the old games.

My thoughts fall,

	   husked.



She opened her skin

for the Colonel, the Colonel

who did not speak

	   a language.



Behind the hood 

of the sun 

is a Wendigoo &

he swallows us all 

	   quick.



January chiroscuro,

bouillion days, dial

random numbers 

on the phone for 

to say all these things 

make me

think of you,



the plaster of these

walls, that's not mine,

either, how



space abhors those

who must go without:

food, shelter, sex or

what have you.



Generalissimo, I

arrange an army

of trinkets, which in these

blankets are

harder than diamonds.