CONCRETE CANALS

The new womb is cut in half
I surround myself with people
just to sit and watch them die

light flows from the television; it feels
as if the very winds are sapped of savagery
by its rectangular river glowing.

I can see through lunacolored chainlink
all the patches of dead grass
where last summer I dropped my guitar
in a fit of drunkenness

and pines like tentpoles toppled on me
homophobics picked up by wifepolice
in the belly of the soil we all

in the belly of the soil belching we croak
our little laments into digital mole-tunnel,
lips pushed back raw to the gums
by the oldest special effects.

The small surf lapping at a slant
of the concrete wakes me want to kiss
wet tiny shards of glass
on the gravel everywhere

where this species that shares my blood
walks treading on their foul products,
rebuilding the robot maids
that guide its days.

The old womb is cut in fourths
I become the genitals of a mythical creature
the kitchen table is made to float
up hard against the sharpening
of my elbows; light is not alive

the creatures under it are eating
the crawl of neon across
ashes woven together
of an old pillowcase
concrete canals
are steering a fish for the mouth
to the absence of our one moon.