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The wolf in the woods took my daughter
Locked her in the boardroom where she took
Down that dummy corporation
With only straw and a spinning wheel

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They dance badly. Thousands of preteen heat proms
burning each other alive, smashing wheels into forks and spoons,
and fucking on beds made of thick, wet, addictive paint.

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Sinking into the fine fibers
Fluffed cotton candy
The aching head marvels
Over the fading soreness
That was just unbearable

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subtle as a snapped neck’s whispering

drag/drag/drag alone
             of the bitten blood

semblance of dry light

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Maybe you did not (openly) feel shame. Or you understood shame, attracted it, embodied it, were given little pieces of it every time you called a parent, every time you handed in an assignment, every time you drove your car or rode your bike, every time you went to the doctor or therapist or your beautician or barber, every time you walked into a gym full of perfection, every time you looked into your crooked mirror.

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O’er a galleon, reflected in the river the frightened animal’s open mouth land a table covered with candles of a large hole at the top of the world the cars drive toward me with muffled headlights free an animal sitting high in a tree

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not everybody who dies will be guilty
not everybody
who dies will be coward
nor deserves
to be ground up and roasted

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We explore soft minutes with interlocked fingers, while in a building half a world away another man sits waiting for death to lick his ear like a lover. Death has written him a letter wishing him well and inviting him to come visit soon. It begins, Dear John, and immediately music can be heard as if at a wedding or a funeral.

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what you loved were 
the impulsive turns and 
errors of my defeat,
broken over your exquisite 
lies lounging on desert-
beaten back street--

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 m piece buyin   pplic tions     h vin
) v lue     be ins  nd wo d, in p  ctic
opy some     t  nsfo m tions of   to
e   it (2.76)  bsence of been  ccus tio
st, d ily unde  ou  ve y unive sity 30

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rejoice! for now among ye walks
a myth amongst mere mortals
drink up if we be friends and
can you get this one because i'm a little short
freedom keeps changing its definition on me

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Do you want my granddaughters and sons
who are sweating it out in foreign lands
to starve me after getting wind that I am
attending useless meetings arranged
by the same crazy and clueless fellows...

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my wife cooked another magnificent
supper and a poet hundreds of miles
away said in an interview that poets
would never be famous as Hollywood
Stars and I erased almost everything
I wrote for the day pleased to surrender

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And I will also tell you, having grabbed
the silver handle covered by a dozen
glittering fingerprints, and leaning over
(for I am near-sighted)
 the Mighty Subway Map,
as if it were a star map - I will tell you:

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domesticated as the dozen carnations
you carry where you used to carry 
a dozen dead elephants
inside a dozen dead snakes

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I too have started mornings
with kites made of lead
flying off foot, pushing a big
lint racket up the mountain

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I paid for a genetic test and they sent my money back,
saying my sample was contaminated, parts of my dna unidentifiable,
from atlantis maybe, or one of those countries that continues in mind and myth
though hasn’t been on the maps for centuries.

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Neither word nor name represents anything, but together they move matter, as if by magic.
Being a fucked up woman is an absolutely healthy response to living in this culture.
No auto-blocking is available at all, but you can block specific phone numbers and addresses.

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as I
sit in
this chair
that now
holds more
of me
than I do

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crowed of ants hide in their undergrounds lairs
their red wrinkled slave driver armies
are not marching to gain power
just yet

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from now on the money's
about sentences
if you think you can place
that surprise litany
around your eyes

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same mistake christ made
same mistake krishna made
same mistake crowley made
same mistake carroll made

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The house wants some
conversation or a song
to fill its spaces.  The night
remains quiet.  I discover
a certain jealousy. 

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Listen Listen to what you hear
to what you hear yourself telling yourself
listen to what you hear yourself telling yourself
while you are brushing brushing while you are
brushing your teeth

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the befriended bone
of a starving dog, the
preferred spot
​of a peeping tom,

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rooms w/o equations
o/windows, o/doors,
[out, out, out!]

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Once we fully understand the mechanics
Of quantum consciousness,
We will finally be able to prove that humans
Create poems at rates
​Of between 40 and 120 cycles (i.e., poems) a second.

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I stopped, even though I can never
stop because the worlds
are revolving and the direction
of this world is not
the direction of my
world in thought

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the gang walked in on them
dragged him across the floor
the door opened again and a different
female breed strolled in salty with blood from
route 66

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Your ass looks just like I thought it would—
Mike, ex-merchant marine, to me, fourteen,
phenomenal flicker of my puerile form
quickened by his glance, made real in his words.

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I bet the crows last night that I'd give them some meat. Worthy enough to take a chance on the road as tires fly by. They laughed and said you've been away too long sister. And they settled on a branch above me. Quiet.

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I keep my little principality tidy. Like Genghis Kahn’s nuns, I am a part of a war nation, having no real land or location, taking pain out in ever widening circles. Shouldn’t I travel as the hordes did, living off the conquered, carrying only my broom, a war nation against my own.  It doesn’t take much really. You only have to be hungry and willing to do what it takes to get fed. 

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whistling pipes
whispering steam
prone on the mattress, breathing in the strangeness
the ceiling like a penalty in the game of visualization

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he dreams of a new physics  - his memory muscle remembering little
he awakens  under pressure  - dismisses the event as a disaster
a new EDEN that can never be  - just more media hype
the long line – an eruption of interruptions – an endless ellipsis

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