the myth of

lace crawls around from the edges of your face towards your nose

it fills your airways with spun eiderdown whiteness and spins its way down your throat into your stomach

where it writhes awhile

before slumbering a heavy slumber there.

you have no idea about the doily sheen spooling out from your eyes and weaving your body for you

a decent favor;

your cushy lace feet absorb the soil and ragged chunks of you fall off in the rain

a sodden pinata

children follow you, you haven't anuthing to give them.

Angel Honey, Cover Your Mouth

He was a baby fresh doper

Pockmarks leaving

     plateaus for

Mama's grilled cheese:

     Salt & Oil,

Same things he used to 

     rub on his knuckles

     to fight the slugs

on the stone gnome outside.

And he'd put ketchup on 

     his lips

And grape jelly to stain

     one eye

And kick his squished opponent,

spitting Chiclets out of

     his mouth.

So that it was a true victory.

Now he spends time with

    thin-necked thugs.

The kind who slather their bodies

    not with adolescent condiments,

But premium, under-the-table

    Whale Blubber.

Slick film to slide out of

     tenement windows.

And they know what it means

to look at a 

     cashmere blouse

And "X"-

Mark the spot.

looking the swollen sun

As he sat down he bargined: I'll get you a match for a cigarette?
I decided to oblidge since the cigarettes i was smoking anyway tasted like harems.
:Sure.
He ran away.
he had no chin.
nor shoulders.
but skinny legs perched between hips.
I agreed regardless of the cigarettes in his pocket.
He got me matches.
as i wrapped myself in cinematique reasoning. He complained about life in a spit and smoke.
He stayed to say his say.
and then left.
i was left with seven cigarettes

the song & dance of glued feathers

Dare we flash each other with bare breast?
tissue collapsed on jutting bone & teeth
sometimes red
others white
weening the language of fidelity out of mind, ear drum & cerebral lobe
Dare we throw question to the wind & appear?
naked under clothes
& delivery trucks
& Manhattan hurricanes?
Maybe i will spy on you.
Fly down with cardboard wings covered in Lycra
kissing those who have nothing better to do
you & I: in relative boredom: together

not true, is it.
the small froth of lions laps at the corners of your mouth
whipping the violence into another storm, another storm.
---they left new orleans again, the sieve city, it holds no one.


not true, is it, the gospel truth of the wind and the rain
of the pale, amphibian wrinkles between each finger
the drunken saunter of baboons under baobab roofs

the stories that your grandfather would tell , looking out the window, convinced the plants were real,real, how could they be fake?plastic?no way,no way.

he liked boxing.

'one two punch; says life, to him, her, him and him,wearing earphones spitting into its mike
'what you gonna do baby' it says, like a funky action movie from the seventies,
black cop swinging his hips.


holy water running in rivulets out of every faucet in the nation!
or is it rust, is it blood?

is it jesus' face? what to we do, god damn, is this a sign?should i get my camera?




on her birthday she waters her cacti with wine coolers.eating smoked oysters and wearing those plastic slippers, see through, pink, kitten heels. feathers on the toes.




the light is out of the 'p' at the pick n sav and everyone has gone home.
it's small inside the car.the air is humming.



the small froth of lions laps at the corners of your mouth
the ships heave in the harbor

it's not true,but anyone could have figured that one out.