I’ve burned the weight

that sloshes off my spine


where it harbors still

in those worlds carved

from wayward steam,


dissolving in tendrils


like a testament erased

from the Bible. Tattered

in lamb, I find my solace

in more glacial editions.


A New World/Bloodborne

These grounds became berries—


a beast that blooms with slobbered

soil, viscous in exuberant earth


panting for the vulgar harvest


when my heels would come

along and juice the tension


from its heavy cranium. For


my own leaking realms, I ask

that it will to do the same to me.


The pulses reminisce of drowning velvet.

Valves, gargling salty fabric and cutting

stitches in the cortices. You, attempting

to clothe them all like garlic vagabonds

before they gnaw through a denim world,

trailing sliced leashes like tunneling worms.

An Organic Environment

The industrial psychologist

desperately waits for real

shapes. Flirtation circles


tongues with renewed

angst, leaving a trail

of dust bunnies moist

from bobcat mouths.

These are not grounds

for burial in yesterday’s

coffee grinds, nor nests


but hunting in perfect

squares bent by rebel

light. Just chemistry.

If Only You’d Render the Head as Intergalactic

How would we re-define “expansive”?


This is the only socially acceptable way

to drown now: a subsidy for space, paid

by the taxes of concrete atoms. Mouths

pried open in a stony trauma. Address


the grievances of eyelids burdened by

excessive gravity/

unbearable landlords/

unsightly graveyards

leftover from manic-depressive meteors.


If only your Manifest Destiny conquered

comets instead of cultures, or engulfed

disease instead of aliens: if only civility


included such institutional endorsements

to identify the corpses of

fellow planets/


Who else but me could scrimshaw

trapeze artists into this marrow,

wire trampolines to these pupils:


implant plasticity like

kidneys synthesized

from the gall of ritual

bulls or a sterilized god

complex? I’ll sacrifice


my ovary eyes to a violent cherries

jubilee, vision jiggling in warring

pores as eggs poached with ivory.


This maternity is to carry

triplets of bullets. I’m out

to crystallize into artillery,

no yolk left to pave red

runny reins to my aorta.


I’m out of kerosene and love:

that’s juicy, raw, rare. Inherit

the soldiers. Prepare the stove.