BLOODWORK

a missed bath
for the almost
white of uncreation,

the threaded
needle of a vein,

away, dreamed
unsunned skins
lead themselves

astray.

LEAVE OFF

the pencil can only
dream of graphite,
the pen, of flesh,

hoard, petals
sear the air,
blooms shedding

any noblesse oblique,
while the sun vibrates
in a milky sky, devouring

this quiet day, breezes
full of teeth, petals sew
the clouds shut,

bicycles chase their
riders, papers wait
blankly, remaining

bone white, despite
their best held
breathes.

EVERY ACT OF REMEMBERING—IS AN ACT OF DESTRUCTION

demiurgically recreated, of course,
I. laughing somewhere beyond the
sky as he makes them darker, dist-
orted, so roses transmute into daisies,
become bone shards, become lilies
tearing their way out of dry April
soil.

are we getting the picture? we reframe
our faces so many times, our six eyes,
six tongues, seven toowhite smiles—
the presence of our absences weighing
down papers in some breezy library,
barren shelved, I. lurking behind window
panes, his bacterial breath fogging them
with the night’s stars.

long ago I could have been the one to
kiss you, cool-lipped, shaking, cupping
your breast under clouds—or coins, or
origami, made minute by the moment,
minutes passing—then, or, then, near
a wall that is now a wall, where after-
wards, you could turn away, swallow
your tongue, turn your eyes green from
blue and

even words slip between our fingers,
I hold mine, cursing I., against my
lips, black bilious syllables cascading
down my chin, as the sunlight churns,
each second a catastrophe of the best
thinking, possibilities collapsing back
into I.’s hands, for him to force back-
wards into the heart of our slimy gray
labyrinths, the keys of our eyes hang-
ing on the cord, around the moon of
his docetic neck.

NO THING BUT THINGS

all elevation is illegible,
lilies ineligible, or at least
un-elegiac, we lie if
laughing, we shoulder all
our unused organs in long
bone black nylon bags,
the extra lungs longing,
lightless, left dreaming
of slight, slight hills.

DOPPELGÄNGER

here is the

split—a low
tuning fork,

entrylevel
docetism

under a
blue moon.

:;:

web dreams,
unsilked,

without
eight eyes,

without
nine arms,

just another
walking ahead

of you.

WAITING ROOMS

a doze
-n empty

television
screens, hide

our wound
up minds.

it’s all
seconds, here—

glass and curtains,
separations, antiseptic,

just the place
for our hopes to

endlessly stalk
echoing hallways.

“NO LAND UNINHABITABLE, NO SEA UNNAVIGABLE”

some summer here,
this someplace, concrete
island, steel-river-ed over
other, older streams

a super-imposed geography,
faked land-writings, regulated,
unlike and like a thousand
other someplaces, except

that space, the place of the
last dread alternative, will
unwilled, un-lime-d, un—
lined papers, the chart-less where

“the very sunbeams froze…”

FOOL’S GOLD

formulas decay—moon-ly,
absent an alchemist,

but we’re here:

in morning,
each morning,

all front-doors and facades,
to recalculate

the weight

of our leaden hearts.

-SHUN

a night stuck with needless

a song half heard in the remembering

a road more absent than rising

a day becomes another, an other day walks in its place

a pen breaks its lead

a puddle of water cracks like the tumbled glass

a moon swallows several clouds, later it will vomit blue bits in front of a bar, in front of a bus stop

a bed waits, half-full or half-empty, like an argument with a pessimist

a(n) a a(waits), as(ssumes) a((n)other))

š?n…š?n…š?n…

NOW HOW WOUND SOW?

ein-eyed, Wednesday bears
some sloppy breath, a broke
word, gasped out, if heard.

herded buildings stand before
a storm, never wrought, no
rain, all the moisture was already

here.