To the Artist's Page 
To our home page
To Luke Buckham's previous piece
To Luke Buckham's next piece
my short-cuts have all been paved the moment i arrive in heaven i'll find someone with a face like a half-moon for conversation because i am tired of features and i have seen god finally sob on a bed he never needed now when i get tired i toss water on my copied face (photographs to simulate tears for passing relief rippling) the last time i made love a wallpaper chameleon tied my eyelashes together now i see all these taxi crashes & fast food commercials through a lattice of bulging black she sold her uterus to a confused watch repairman globules of mercury in the toilet water thermometers and pillow feathers invade my afternoon naps the backyard river shows me a seam straining between the halves of my brain the spine of a misplaced eel (sex math/buried bell)declaration of independence hung from a clothesline with my stiff underwear underwear underwear (mute executioner/happy racists)5th amendment soaking in the sink all the runaways kids are given masks; that's why they stay on their milk cartons my expanding vocabulary alienates my family of silence-- shut up for a minute, mr president. pulling a new shoelace from the ear of a rat--return to the wall, all of you! utter chaos of hotel toilets flushing all at once in the power outage the army recruiter cut my breakfast orange in half with a clean bayonet & put a convenient bullet hole through the newscast & the milk carton an efflux of birds from an abandoned house's chimney leads the way to insomniac sleep (paralytic lovers/lollipops)bill of rights burning in my grandfather's numb hand he smiles, a leaf curling slowly in warm December i hate nature & (oil & water look like i hate technology brain fluid when finally mixed) i want my word processor to grow careful roots & microchips to find the unrest of tree bellies screens of bark & branches of metal would make me comfortable she's so beautiful that when she goes out the sidewalks piss themselves in their many concrete-dusted denim pants anteaters benevolently attack the restless punctuation in all my notebooks spores taking shelter on the root of my tongue write cowardly speeches for me to gargle away with rubbing alcohol i fell in the kitchen under the scent of my heavy recipes & was wrapped in a tuxedo of linoleum i warm my hands in the palpitating oven to caress my few memories of breasts i close my eyes around girls of angular woven straw who try to strike damp matches on the worries of each other's foreheads. i ended the day with an axe but it came back with a wet flag.
To the top of this page