Monday, January 4, 2010


Pupils of ink rejoice in treetops
Rubbing rivers to take impressions 
Of overcooked, human-like relaxers,
Small and seasalting 
The rattles at dawn, and inside

The lodged larvae is a drowned spirit
Perversely locking
Deep pits with basements
And 99 atmospheres
That will suit me just fine


As dirt washes and blenders pulse, I place
Corn down the invader

Off-tick my pen hours, the socks and broth
Prep for weeks
An eden of the small, marvelous fawn
Sipping from a river and nervously gawking 
At seasides of egg, the

Cheap pits
Hissing when all my sadness is lawn


Said day playing gnostic games takes
My lungs away, and then a gypsy
Exposes the soul-crushing delay

And she brandishes me 
With a swearing by God that
When heralded refills

The eden of my pit
The rubber pupils
The socks in the casket that lay and lay

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