4/2/14

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

remember

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

betrothed.

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.