My guts ache with sorrow like silk
I like to think of life as a rotating chair
in the gone soup kitchen that guided my lizard face
through many piss mirrors I empty my lacerated crown wallet
I dump out the brig of souls on towns that sour for me
red-faced spirits inherited from mortgaged hells
feet infant soft on the feeling banister crawling rounded corners
toward triangular supplies that melt their own shadows
slain immortal aspirations drive a fork lift
through the animal heat of a mangled mind
trying to playground the edge around the eyemeal
laced with rumors of a war on the inner life
sledge which I will fight with the costume of my cowardice
pulled past a moose's emergence by a stick with eyes
fighting in the woods, slapping mother and father,
whacking them around like dolls, thinking of onions;
nullity in the blue bulb ditch where I was condemned to die a stinkbug
sunk in the torn tendrils of a newer tongue
the wrapping paper of yesterday's plan
discarded by the look of the mouth that spat it into being
intoxicated by poetry like my mother at the bible puking
reading this pig of sky with clean entrails
gloved in field mice
by the flank reflection of a full moon dozer.