Apr 2, 2014


Limits confound like a headache,
the white conversation
helicopters; out among the same
razed discourses—
each one goes looking
for what can only be found
in the cloudlands of the laid head,
not a damp mattress
in the brittle keep
of someone’s sotto voce.

Until the terms of confinement
are emblazoned one does not
to seize, prize the mouth of the
falcon to put in head & look
for the real, dirty truth
of the dream. 
The nervous bourgeoisie
will pull apart the house
while you trace the pentagram
with lipstick & soot;
this is what we never discussed
in polite society:        I am the child
            of Belial. 

Middle managers
in the drab corners
exchange quarters;
O you loud heavy
ships out to sea
don’t leave without me
without leaves
in the garden of my

Snapping off woods of home
 to feed the tribe 
king and confusions
 through the room
 ship stops by shack 
some little vultures 
some screams of tankers 
outside, the dry holds
 of husbands.  Royal jelly, 
dried shark fins, firewood,
wash bowl.

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