How do they do it ( Read more... )

The morning is a paper cut ( Read more... )

a scratch that
makes me skip
and possibly trip
on the bottle that is calling
I wish my tongue were numb
so it wouldn't have to explain
anything anymore.

Let me tell you the story of how I don't know anything ( Read more... )

Las manos mienten ( Read more... )

just standin there in the
shadow of a shakin finger
sayin, Did I ever tell you
how your masculinity
is something of a
ship, with her knots
tied clean and snug
and her sails lithe
and crisp
so casually does
she lean against the wind,
like an eyelid lightly closed

And then I'm thinking of the time I was swimming with manta rays and I'm thinking that is what it's like to share the water with epic film.

Today my breath smells of wolf. Did I eat one in the night? Or has my mouth learned to howl.

They bleed freely, and I sense the heat of the wound. The rawness is obscenely palpable. My back is stiff from crouching, but I will always be prepared for the moment when they blink.

Fucker just a smear
on my beast horizon
all you bitches
are devoid of the word
the word people
is just a smear to you
and you are blind
to the beast horizon.

It looks purple in sunlight
and looks brown in the darkness
and ferocity
you are a huckleberry ripened
in frost and golden threads
hang from you.

My joy is viceral.

A fox, a bullet, a down-pull,

and

a tap and a drain and a hot drop of oil.

A hot drop of oil.
A hot drop of oil.

A fox, a bullet, a train.

A fox.

So many questions.
Each question is a bullet.
Too many questions.
And the answers are wounds.