Faked Out Brunch

Bomb the peasants with letters,
Engorge bloated emptiness with words

Of caress, soothed dream of alfalfa
Instead of food,

Pomona, the fields lie – paint a sign –
Leapfrogged by persuasions
Catastrophe and hair

Loose sands forming bunkers
And space faces,
Eyelets from the carnage
Of millions of Mongols

Streaming into a room for someone
Else’s
Brunch.

Lodged

So much blotter and spare time,
Incisions on the dark and squeals:

Research your part in the delinquency
Before sharpening an overturned edge.

Economy in the straight lines breaks cups
On the mantel: a crest of hero’s lies

Informs a flower; a table with your name
In spilled juice and vacuum time

Inside your head. Waaaa. Innocuous
Calming overlaps of sound, the hands

Dropping coins, gloves on the pavement
Doses of quaint forgiveness about

A hundred years too late. Quaint,
Squinting eyes burning halos in themselves.

Disputed Hair

In this too, unsound acrimony
Like the tide in history ebbing clothes
And sundry garbages into place
For observations, the children
In her brocade, in her watching out
For the real wilderness at the zoo
Looks left from the Walrus tank
And sees a sludge in the drain
Near an ivory colored napkin,
An ice cream cone tusk nibbling
The edges around her remembered
Scars, her clouds inverted
To a future of drowned hair,
A loose and muscular fixing into place.

Honorary Wax Works

Or hollow skins in bus terminals
Made to look human, complete with smell
And sense of sorrow, magnitudes
Of sorrow, barcodes of failure and leftover
Sandwich wrappers crumpled
Like old women in babushkas, like crosses
And borrowed nails quilled
Into breakfast ads and corporate distances.

Only the departed know what endurance is.
Only we are waiting to be included
In the museums of human failures.

You know us? We outlined your warnings
And premonitions of gutter-hood. Sir?
Sir? Do you know your flower’s wilting.

red eye

Tickling Throat

At the tip of this slum is what I
Polished and then threw over board.

Symmetrical breath, unsheathed shivs
And prison bulbs, roses in gaslight

Gassed highways and break-stones
Along the breath, gasps in high apartment
Complexes drink rain water until swollen
With striated toeholds on shopping dreams.

My child is renting her hopes
To swiftly passing bees and distant
Trains, her air trumpet gorged
And golden.

So beauty rests her
Bars as much as pink is a petal’s undoing.

Double

zombie elegy

Sideways in the penetration
Your loom coils up to her breath
With a slogan of paranoia

She envisions the same cloud
You embank, your loosened edges
Deteriorate also with a sledge

To the soft part brushed over
Hollows filled in to a stammering
Lift, the fingernails uncover

What I was afraid of, what I said
In shades of dirt and leaf light
What gummed force hit my head

On leaves linked to gasping lips
Which perforate the ground.

Zombie Come Home

Ollie Ollie Oxen Free

Thingulous Distentia

Dangling miasmacorpulor in closets
Of lead or meat-casings

Befriend a pile of toad, a road
Of abbreviated squishings

Betide the zombie pirate lurch
An other such dances

Garrulous elbow bounce and doom
And resurrected to polite

Refraction, a lurch up, a lark
Despite the despicable

Which collected you go enquiry
Into the profitable behavior

And ask how to bring me back
From all the horsing dangled meat hooks.

Seen any zombies?

Thermal Detonator

Or shall the doom befall which carburetor
Installed with paycheck of steel

Chambers in surge protected by
Gear shafts overwrought, jeeze,

Overhauled you knob, rod the rich
Rod of the gods, Rod your heart

Rod almighty. Yes? Indeed, the switch
Inebriated of will, road tested

Bedside gouge in a heart of calamity
Inscribed on your cake, for you

All for you, Damien, your prince
House a shambles, which thus

Arises new born in its shards dressed
To will a new prod of clinging.

Second Firmament

Only the pods in their thinking caps
Desire more furniture than we do.

The agreements postpone lunches
For hangnails and reminders of scrapings

On the door, on the furnace near yard
Of metal shavings, near a hard corner

Where the chin meets a table, amicable
Then the blood. I sent e-motives to outer

Space when I was 8. I kept a hard look
At the surplus rug they gave us

To cover the stains, to cover the beatings
And a halo on a ghost in a carefully

Matched box centered so no one would notice
In the heart of a wooded housing complex.

Because Richmond Sucks Less

Good Morning Richmond, Who Feels Like Hiring An Insane Person?

With A Family Even

Lisa Thi Beskar Takes Good Photos.

And she saved my life with brroccollii casserole.

His Patio with Him Missing

The Grief Of One Death Knuckles Into The Last.