the likelihood of Losing sleep______________________________She has become one remarkable appendage.Among the slop of barstools we were introduced;had her pulse, perhaps, become any sadderI'd have thought her a reptile."But this is about mammals,"slunk from me, suppressedby the stature of my sweating tumbler;and I boiled to beat my extinction out the door,then very swaggered, watched a swallowtailswirl on the landing of an arid alleywayto tatter its wings, so pastedto a piece of warm gum."A correct assessment, butterfly.""But this is about mammals."*Though I wish, I am not exempt from interaction.I've been writing about her for months butmy nerves are that shape of a beaten cur.So I bought one to keep me company,to keep me remembered at night andto dig holes for staying cool in this weather.I put it on a leash and named it nothing.The whimpering has become comfort,and I feel much more pleasant aboutnever confronting her to comment onjust how the rafts of her skincan bring me rapture;yet
Tractatusperhaps it's illogicalthe way i count your eyelasheswhen you sleepi had gotten so high one nightthat i swore i climbed themlike ladders leading towardsthe place where you held thoughtsthat you kept secreted awayi saw the first moment you knewthat i would break your heartand it was okay that my nameechoed in your head when i mis-steppedand caused a grimace and then a smilewere you an infant it would have beenattributed to some sort of gasi found out that you loved the wayi could not commit to a thingespecially you.
in Lieu of a Lie______________________________Our sky squatshostile and sad;what a wail of rainand wind whena hardwood throwsseveral hickory nutsdown wherethe runt squirrelwill be shovedfrom the nestto plummetand be rearedby the shakinghands of manbutman will soonplummet himself,surely as his wifedoes scream,surely as sheloves cold menbut not so muchdoes she lovethe cold.______________________________
Birthright 1Lay me, seated, at a table-faction of smiling dead: cadavers raising their forks and scalpels to their chests, gladly dining on themselves. Turn my head to that Roman rot; to the unknowing hairs of their long, unattached noses, strands overtaking the upturns of bottom lips; to the fingernails that question their place in the ranks of graves, and cusp the hollow of wine glasses like they do their own long-dissolved souls; and turn my head away from youespecially you, e sempre. 2</b>Yesterday I discovered the virility of your hands (and not my own)No, each of mine shakes a dinner guests and yields, yields, yieldseach timid finger an exploding woman, I the el
The Garden of Ethelart deco fruit punch spouts,The Garden of Ethel.but if i keep my mouth open,will the sun rays damagemy sunbathing throat gums and ridges?Why do the palm trees slouch?Why can i see the creases and wrinkles between the obviouspuzzle pieces that construct this constant blue sky?God: Ethel was fond of her slender ember sticks and she passed by way of emphysema. This world is the fallen eyelash of Ethel. A woman's flawed life and the sky cracks mark no sympathy.
that Tragic branch______________________________a squall toprovoke defeat --go the gales to severtrees, go the trees to shedruin and scatter what remainsonce the wind sucks inthis autumn --as go I hoping dumblyto be just as ruined,scattered, remainingonly of what autumnleaves to die --goes a cankered gust,to irritate the high perch,to rile the storm,to rouse the wrenthat brings hintof her;the wrento be blownto wormsor flap fromthat tragic branch --soI never expect anyoneto stay.______________________________