The flaming house surrounds me
ten thousand daggers for ten thousand men
and I am crouching I am the lamp
naked cowboy cruising in a bathrobe
running broken-toed through stilted linoleum
vampire propeller of lost days, with a haircut
emptiness of washed-out background calling
floating in mid-air with eyes, with not quite right shoes

all forests are outside calling
together in triangle trenches from the outer
world carved inward by departed woods
shoveled dawn and shoveled shade in long piles
shrubs and their berrylike motions
tastes and their fragrance of falling
beams a tangle of flotsam flying
dead set pentagrams in a gruel's barn of mouth

rhododendron and blaze of gerbil
paths descending from sewage in the wet hill
long ditches of walkers with suspended tongues
buckets of tin in a stone unwashed floor
corroded walks of antique draped in ornament walkers
blazes framed in arctic sun trail
form relinquishing the keys of death
the flaming house comes to life in light of many flaming houses

neighborhoods dark with scorn decorate the hillscape
showing light the broken rock fences going out of style
long branches are hands in flight from gods
who never cursed the soil
nursed to life by torn tits and sheen of green earth
hanging limb in the middle of my life that never caught fire
that stays with me and pursues me til I raise it like a fist
conglomoration of shelled beings weeping in orgasm