Thursday, March 5, 2009



I admire my message to the rural champions.
I admire my amputation of the lunar sigh.
I am distinctly buried in a fetal position.
The behavior of my vulnerable corridors
Gives your ox its spontaneous genetic frenzy.
So long and elegant is my piss behind this bar stool.

The ape it strokes
Its cereal with toothpaste on toilet paper.
The pebble it skips
A spelling of the same pile two years late.
As a solider I balance
My sword inheriting total clot control.

And suddenly there’s access to sacred expulsions.
Suddenly, my lurking hires an urgent sanctuary.
My despair sells the kids for boxes.
My faith it sells the cat for condiments.
This solar intelligence drags my intestines
Through hair and grass always open for whores.

O indeed I’m blended, but sit down motherfucker,
I still pray
For fragments within me to judge what’s small and tragic.
The crops they’re whipping like motherfuckers,
And I’m hit while praying
Those sirens are hungry for my manicured image.

It goes without saying
I’m full of the real paradox.
Birth after birth,
My stringy pollen layers itself
To prime the infant’s waning grill.

It goes without saying,
My grand birth of afterbirths
Is a dim passage
Where shepherds may scratch inscriptions
Into you
Who cannot forget his stolen egg sky.

1 comment:

James Darman said...

You've been kill'n it! RC