Loose Canon

shots ricocheted at borders

coated walls absorbed friction-lit brigades
sensitive machines registered red hits

sleep fell on specifics regardless
universals fried sausages

not much could be spoken of remorse

second skirmish sent forces scattering
shards of green glass littered forest floors

irreplaceable antiques wiped their eyes
on the cuffs of the loosest canon

I didn’t expect immolation to arrive so soon





Legs

senseless propositions

seem ruddy-cheeked in sky-backed night
exhaust-fume dense from windowless space

you’re black-hewn then, from spider-webbed heat
(rubbed, boned over propulsions)

clouded lights prove unstable, shoot themselves off
damp felt ends of feeling….

a state of affairs untouched by contraction
simulacrum of finite regression

puddles and spoon-handles confuse themselves





Call

leaves and pavement fastened to my phone

you cast a salt-harbored spell from Boston
crabbing in a scuttle beneath me

born of phonological effluvia
caressed vowels ‘twixt your tongue and teeth

taste of buttered lobsters sans bibs
I moseyed, street streaked black, benighted,

tired, decompressed to nothingness…
sullen street-light scintillations

picked meat in your consonants
pavement gave way to gravy

my phone had an orgasm and gave out





Blog-balls

Stomach-stormed, the keyboard’s an ink-
gun, letter-loaded. You want to pierce the skin,
tattoo me. I’ve got a space on my left upper-
arm. I’ve wanted a dragon there, but your teeth-
ink-marks will do. Get some fire-water in you;
you’ll feel wetter, heady for the hunt. Now, you’ve
spotted an opening, gaping like a moon-crater.
Stick it in, every inch of it. Bind me by my
blog-balls, so you see— it’s good to thrust.
It’ll be even better w/ you on the bottom.





Nowhere Man



.

What can he be but what he already is?

Don’t cry for his non-existent ideology.
He doesn’t. He thinks of it at odd moments,
between contented sips of whiskey, NPR
blaring like Wagner, when the moon
makes him feel what he’s lacking—
the fire inside, the knotted tension,
clotted arteries, blotted wounds,
sodden innocence. He’s as tender
as a calf, simple as a lark, quiet
as a cat. All he thinks about is tail.

What can he “is” but what he’s already been?