Apr 5, 2011


No good comes from a vanilla
flash, the frying skies; don’t
look above where the wheel
in the sky spins a lathe. All

through the night until the brown
sun dawns.  Stanger, stranger,
make a brooch of your falling
teeth, the beaks of doves;

who can sex the bare skull?
A mandala of chrome rings
& the rain stings, what creature
sings when a house falls?

Everyone into the street
like a party, the wily styles
of the plastic bags,
face-huggers, concealing our last

nakedness, all I see
can’t be true to life.  The last
movie was us, the camera
high above, a roman candle
spits chromium sparks

through the seaweed-
green.  No identity: my body
is a pixel.  Not even data.
We were dancing.

Wailing came, a rook
out of the shower-
drain, our pipes far below
the buckling ground.

They erupt like bones
& spew blabbering
the black water.  It will wash
you away.  A splat of black

feathers is punctuation,
full stop the needle
pops & clicks & pops
& clicks in the groove.

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