DOVES EAT LEMON PIES, FRONT_ROW

I'm not sure how to spend my time anymore,
if I can't spend it all weeping.
I think of the rages and joys
of all my life, and wonder simply
"what was that all about??".
I just burst out cackling wildly
in the middle of a foggy sentence
that I happened to be speaking,
trapped in jail.

Bees disrupt the color of my hands,
all radiance come down to spill my guts,
and a handle of burger to flourish
from the waist of my pine shadow.

A telephone pole of black light, tar dark
on its torso & antlers, reaching all its
ringing anti-ecstasy into the stretched tarps
of vast disembodied ear.

2 skulls that knock together
chin & bridge of nose
interlocking blades
surrounded by every
engine.
Weeping continues in the banks
as well as the alleyways.

CROWS GULP BLUEBERRIES
WHILE STANDING NECK_TIED
AT AN ARTIFICIAL SHORELINE.

I'LL LET THE LIGHT TRICKLE THROUGH MY FINGERS HANDS
AS WE KNEEL ON THE FLOORS DOORWAYS
OF YOUR LAST FULL-FORMED MEMORY

I kneel in the cells of a slanting house
say "the rain is infinite" but know
it's not, I beg the senseless air
for company. The pissing of skies
traps me in my room, holds voices
of all others force-fielded far away.

I stop in the calls of a smashed drainpipe
to bring my walk down to a railroad sound.
I let the whole street come up
through my wrists. Streetlamps
tower & crown
my only shoulders.

I stop near a tongue-kiss memory
in the quiet hurricane of a concrete stairwell.
(It's a house I built steadfastly when I was unwell.)
We hated every moment of it's dilligent
progress, & faded blue-green down,
moss everyone.

there are two lives: one with friendships,
one without, both equally beautiful,
both equally irrelevant. Who needs

other bodies will speak of other bodies,
who speaks of other bodies will need
other bodies, in imagination.

How sad, to eat blue berries
thinking of this, and the rot in the gut,
and horror of the stained white

flickering at the bottom of the bucket.

A small lizard
from the melting skids
of a burnt tire

could fit
in its dying writhe
through the seam
of my shaking hand's palm.

Only we in its death throes
will know the quietness
of its last protest.

But its tongue flickers,
a brown flame from the hearth
of a life we abandoned
when we gained fur.

The skin it sheds
is coating still
the severed hand
I left behind,
with one of my favorite
fellow mammals,

when the yellowed eyes
of the fur-wearers
wore out
and I saw their emptiness
in the reptilian tunnels

they had avoided crawling
ever before I
entered and willingly let sag
my halves of skin.

I cut her slim belly open twice,
once above the navel and once below the navel.
I push stones through each incision, both ovoid,
each looking like Brancusi's
Sculpture For the Blind.

I tell her, "I hope this is my best
cataclysm". She readies herself
to carry these articles within her,
and asks me to walk hand-in-hand
with her, as I talk ceaselessly,
gloomily, about what, I cannot tell.

She grips my hand tighter
and uses her other hand
to hold the slits shut
that I cannot stitch.

Watching this all from a distance,
I know I am not a surgeon, or a murderer.
Watching all this from a distance,
I don't know if I am a surgeon,
I don't know if I am a murderer.
Watching all this from a distance,
I don't know if I'm watching this
from a distance.

I have a thread wired into my hamstrings
that was shipped from a floating saucer
hospital to fix her belly,
and in the numb bulb of my groin
a salad scoop for the stones.
I keep these things
meant to help her form
in my form, in order to inflict
pain upon us both.

She knows from my cringing walk
that I carry these instruments.
She grips my hand tighter still,
the sweat thicker than the blood
that seeps against her other,
and begs to be allowed
to heal me.

clasp
the awful gold
hate
the silver
around the eyes

where to go with a mop
where to go with a pen
inside the body
of a new dragon
inside
the pages of a dragon's
stupid wings

snail on a dandelion leaf
opens a hole of empty white light
in the spiral of his shell
his mucus-trail turns to hottest fire

the dandelion clock goes
rapidly back to yellow after firing its seeds
into the dying
pink horizon.

I offer my palm
to the inching of this visitor
from a dimension of tightly-woven,
never-dying, heavily compacted light.

He crawls through a faint stigmata
the only part of my hand that is still there.