Friday, January 3, 2014

drafts and roughs, worksheets [all unfinished

A thing-minted day
Fresh as it lay full leafed on the flesh
Threads of spittle drying on the deadbolt
Where is the confidant harlot enough to hear me
Whipsaw savored preserved
Barns full of sabbath
Straddlefuck swizzlefuck
Fishnet dalliances may at last pass repose but
Mermaids lowered down chimneys
Morphcam transfer monoprint cluster
Are you assisting at
The postponement of my poem
Where I came to samesex myself
To cohabit with death


From the trestle overpass I tossed
one of the chopped-off arms onto
a train heading for Miami and then
another limb upon a Chicago-bound

freight and so on until eventually all
of the sad parts were disposed of
in this manner, saving the head for last—
it went to L.A., they need heads

there, perhaps.  Dispersed around
the country each piece of the corpse
could never be accounted, my crime

would go unsung until such time as the U
S of A reunites to solve me, save me,
resurrect this never perfect body.


now where's the oar to steer
my window away from night
stonethrows patrol the site
its targets narrate what's near

which of us can pleasure spite
unique enough to seem regular
or angle all to get it right
airing each gasp on a coathanger

skilled anchor-priests will tow
ulterior rain in their uterine wall
but you-and-I's prodigies know
our genitals are relatively oral

cue-quiz the vatican's factwhore
scrape that mock off your back
phantom-orbed for destiny's cloak
someday you may haunt me more



like a moth but not 
the noth flies
south to its ways
gift-wearing loneliness
moulting purities

handmedown my hand 
outerbound grown
from high yonderbye
noth wings are nothing
and nothing's why

each noth-nest is full 
of hungry cries
they speak for their beaks
and as they fly
they wave to their why

nights the noth migrates 
but days it returns
is it an insect or a bird
real or absurd
wish it was that straight

sometimes it swoops 
around my head
off-course who knows
where earthen it's been
so barren its share is

so child its sheer is 
here to ground
and air to polar
then back up to fare
a sortes of series

I wait for more 
expecting neglect
has found this foul
day to fall baffle
nightmare for soar

noth flight is right 
route or wrong
shot to the ground
unstrung by a song
it must shrug to sing


a necktie
negates me

and of course
the shirt's worse

the pants
I can't I just can't

why do my clothes
oppose me

every costume
is contumely

hats hate me
and socks mock

indubitably my shoes

each coat
has got me by the throat

belt belts me about
pockets lock me out

shorts or briefs
both thwarts and griefs

the buttons too they
unite in mutiny

it's Kill Bill 3
daily they attack me

my gloves shove me
my sweater swears vendetta

every thread
wants me dead

my slacks exact revenge
whenever I change

into them each item
claims me its victim

just getting dressed
is dangerous

must I go nude afraid
of couturicide

what roused my attire
to this ire

what made this rent
between me and raiment

what caused this split
with each outfit

this breach
with the britches and such

why does my ensemble
want to bomb me

the closet's declared war
on me the defector

where's our armistice
pale in its healing surplice

the tender toga
that would tug us together

cause once I used to care
donning debonair

the latest fashion
in a flash I'd lash on

my ass in an ascot
my heart in a headshot

undoubtedly some labor
went into nabbing my clobber

acquiring my sport-dress
was not effortless

it took a lot of brute
pursuit to root out the right suit

for an occasion where
duds were de rigueur

the cost was not
inconspicuous oh what

caused this rift
with my shift

what made our aim
less uniform

was I ever arm in arm bent
with any garment

was I ever in synch-op
with my tanktop 

complain complain nag nag
least you got a rag

on your back my skeleton
pipes up lookame none

he's right what right
have I got to feel spite but

I never meant no
harm to them why

have they gone so

on me 
when it could be

otherwise we could be lovers
but no all my clothing

is filled with loathing
for what it covers

/when we could be

so good together



The pianist’s wrists
are encircled by flames;
she forgot to take off
these blazing bracelets
before playing or was
her handvalet detained
by the concert crowds
who here push forward
in their ripest seats to see
this arsonist jewelry;
upon each virtuoso paw
a flakwork gold watch
shows the time is now,
the music's burning.


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