Poem in which I attempt to adequately explain my process
Poem in which the sound of rifle
fire comes back at me like canned
laughter; where love is a fourletter
Poem in which a sour grief
grouts the mouths of maiden aunts,
who count their keepsakes out
Poem in which the old cripple’s
Bombyx fists are burst on the low
corner of a tea table; where funerals
are manners, ramekins, napkins,
and a picture of the Late Pope.
Poem in which I cannot sleep;
wear faith like a verdict, blacken
the blackest Friday in recorded history.
Poem in which my suicide-cousin
gave it away to the stupid utopian
ponzis of God, his chronically
bothered Christian Science.
Poem in which the kitsch pity of ex-
lovers does my head in; in which I
walk the streets, banging my loss
like a one man band.
Poem in which I do not need
your pale carnations; where I
am prodigious with lilies.
Poem in which Saint Michael
appears in the rear-view,
a headbanging klepto in biker
boots, swinging a brick in his fist.
Poem in which madness
makes the heart grow thunder;
in which I have a look
that could spoil ointment.
Poem in which I am schtum
as a straight razor; in which
speak of the devil and he
Poem in which yours is a terror
and mine is an incident.
Poem in which I dress for a
fetish: latex plaything; in which
my mouth is a crack in
a windshield, spreading.
Poem in which we open
the boy like a paper fortune teller.
Poem in which some detrimental
shit set fire to a dog in the rural
Poem in which we glean reprisals
from radio static.
Poem in which a priest blares
flack and grace like a ruptured
Poem in which oh God,
the ache in my arms; the flat
the flat finesse of medication.
Poem in which a down day
dragging its clubbed foot.
Poem in which a man’s hands
move like a heat wave.
Poem in which fuck everything;
the stiff bewilderments of experts.
Poem in which I am incorrectly
diagnosed; colossal folly in the flesh.
Again and again and again.