Critic, cynic, skeptic.
We see the same thing differently—
That's relative
not relevant.

Hush, you fools! We sleep today,
dumb as locks and deaf as clay.
Does friction make you grit your teeth
or have you burned the fuse away?

I knocked upon your ribs one time -
how pure the echoes rang inside!
The brain has left to greet a guest
but will the mindless body thrive?

Do you know you moan at night?
Ghosts wear sheets over their eyes
against their skin, between their thighs -
In fits of white, be sanctified!

Do Thee Wed

“As the wedding day approached - June 14, 1938, Gertrude continued to confess her reluctance. Delmore’s apprehension expressed itself in fits of nausea and vomiting, and his mother announced that she wished she was dead.”

“When is the when is the --
(I’m going to be sick.)
“Now what is the how how how soon?”
(I’m going to be sick.)

Gertrude’s in her mumu, blonde hair in a mat,
setting flame to glossy pages of her bridal magazine.
Ashes fall to the carpet like distress flares, burning
mascara clumps on the pink **** rug.
She mumbles how soon,
how soon, how soon?

And my mom, she’s climbed up on roof
and begun to pace from end to end,
moaning like a *****, fanning herself with her hands.
Dad’s in the yard making a spectacle and -
Oh, I’m feeling sick again.

The beams bend like matchsticks
under mom’s panicked corpulence
as she nears the edge of the roof.
At the sight of her my father
slaps his hand over his heart
and sings, “Here comes the bride,
big, fat, and wide..”

I leave Gertrude babbling and rocking on the couch
(“I just don’t know now, darling, how how how soon?”)
and I slink in silence out the door.
Beyond my mother and father,
down the sidewalk out of sight,
I finally ***** on my shoes.

Faded paint on the wall
Dust in my keyboard
Watch energy drip through my fingers
Into the keys
To drainpipe emotion
Through electric superhighway

Summerwassohot
    (in you)
when
plum wine

,

in the tight heat of tiny Eugene

,

mudfuddly
drunkenly heaved
with ******* every night.


and sweat