Monday, July 13, 2015


Six wounds to get me out of Friday night,
six wounds in the elephant of my sinking consciousness,
the cabin fixed to mother, the airport open with barrenness,
trees and trees and trees on the way to hell
and trees and trees and trees on the way back to hell
feed on the beauty green the spread of the impossible
notched cliffs miss the rift dim highway suds,
manufacture of broad daylight in cemetery motor
core of death's achievement, torn paper skull
bronze files piled to the rafters and leaning
a record of silence tilted scrapingly up against
the last wall, cymbal of ice contracting time-flutter
rasp of a dying drum set the pale of a cool room
microphone warrior hungry for dark air man trumpet animal care
an animal caring for twilight a staring midget
and the one who admits he is fucked and goes to his homeless weather
the peak in the head leafy frostily reminds sun
the lapping dead froth of the swamp's half-road
effect, dying for the wobble of a thousand Adam's apples
gulping to the tune of private madness spurned
on high to low down the spectacle and bring wreck to the six wounds
of what the pig meant to the unremembering elephant
in my soul in my soul in my soul

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