a man holds
a fistful of pine needles.
tattooed pistoleer wonders if the
under the tarmac provide enough
the forests of Azerbaijan. The coolie
and smirks, the emerald in his forehead growing
and incongruent proportions.
proportion. Especially when six-fingered
their sweaty ham-hands onto their thighs
in front of
a standing ovation at the Orpheum. The
don't like it. But, the helmet-clad
wish that they had the fruit that fell from the
Joshua tree. That’s what they think.
up to the misanthropes, and plead to the masters
that control the radio waves that
from the pulsar. It's all proportion.
shiny blade that the kids want from the
because there’s numbers to be had,
the hidden angles. Believe what the antennas
give to the
people when their faces grow hair and their hair
faces. Make it and break the “it” that it controls.
woodchuck song, Frank. The sun went nova.
left but proportions.
of an Angry Moon
pugilist lashes out
at a bitter
in his swelling
men watch on. Their
hangs in folds
cackle and clap.
A drop of
blood hits the middle man.
the yolk of
his egg, which seeps
septic wound. The blue
behind him laughs
wardrobe of hair shirt and jeans.
distance, a coyote waits and dreams.
I sit and
watch as the clown mocks my sight. His
eye reveals a twinkle under its
membrane. He yanks out the offending
offering it to me as sacrament. I feast.
A child squeezes
his favorite hamster
stops twitching. In the living room,
lays silent and blue.
breakdown begins as the moon
and madmen shoot each other
dunes, sick from ocular wafer
disjunction of upper lobes
membranes make a final resting
the old stone wall that crumbles
bitter and frank discussion as I
speak to my
internal minions that twitch
inside me. You call them
but I call them brothers as
we revel in
Perkins and Lester Holt Visited the Wallace Residence Thursday Night
A work boot
with a tuft
end of a brown
tattered shoelace sits on
wooden step in front
burning trailer house.
as a shadow moves
hot and broken
rests and winks