mez breeze

_N.][di][visible Rawswarming(c).*_

Gene.o.trash Labels

*.[this is not my colourful codepoetry
images of a small velveteenish head
all slippery N binary-glitched]

Newscl.o.ning through Ceramically-C][lashed N l][o][a][ded Teeth

*.[barcode rings and ICANN singing
“i can icann i will”]




Yr predict.cabled dark Statistical Response.*

][non][ X.pressi][ng on yr soft bellied throat][ve P][oint][.O][f][.C][ontact][.*

Volume 1.3 of a L][ewd][urker ][re:][Orientation.*

Non-responsive][ness][-sided Participant Chip M.bedd.*

[S][l][][count 1 seconds][s out of sight.*

.O.vert ][wo][Manifest Con][sciousness][tent.*

N.][di][visible Rawswarming(c).*][ter][ Clouding.* Maleinglist Blue-Printing.*

An ][re:][Active De.sign.][posted][ation.*




–massed ][re:][genders clinging upwards

–filling e.volu][mes][tionary gap.pages

–swimming in shoals of beta-blocker infomash

–vehicular datatraffic back-breakage

–reified t][heory][onnage slapped against ][tesla][ c.oils

— .XX. -porno units of floating density

–we swamp N stitch blond baggage in2 ochred tones of re][a][d




[A.D.D D.D.T D][u][CT T.A.G]

*.flag a future.stun-gunned.strand
& flick yr Nouvelle
twinned cauls of ][t][here N now.*

Megan Kaminski

from Wintering Prairie


Long shadows and sun-melt spread
across lawns across asphalt
neighborhood strip mall and shop
spread west past town into farm
past county line and field
cottonwoods on the river
switch grass and bluestem crowd
over limestone around barbed fence
tree-creak warm goat-graze in sunned patches
this afternoon this house-break this reprieve
from bone-chill and ache this call this flutter
dry leaf on a branch light coating shadow
this grasping for mile after mile
this swallow this sigh this heartcrush
for all that surrounds
for all the comprises and connects
hair bone skin made tissue from
dirt from water from sun from mineral
temper this break and empty balance
tally our remaining days




Morning toll campanile echo
through the valley over the frozen lake
graying sky barely gray more
an absence a want for things
to come that will not      green trash receptacle
green hose evergreen bush
hardly green tipped in snow
the widest main street in Plains, Kansas,
twenty cars deep median treed and empty
wheel tred wind wobble call and kaw
no people today just wind down the street
no plows scraping asphalt concrete
no boot-tracks through field
hawk-call and chimney-smoke
freeze unending absence unbroken

Tim Earley

If Your Odor Is Offensive You Are Probably A Wingback Cobbler from Another Era

To deign inside a sortie of bruises. Livery vaunted lip. In the cord pose. In the placement noose.
To creep in the structure of your haberdasher’s reclusion.
We were busy saucing her delicates. We were busy mactating her protrusions.

Inflared dimswitch the wisteria apart.
Your flanking of the character wheel bores even my mother, a rotary witness, her briny
Dress flaring in the nuclear arrays, my pistol is attached to a greater speculative lasso,
Greater Passovers, fly ground down into witness.
In the wing-tomb a blistered dress and upturning sesquant pitch, flounge that happier
Impasse between the ocelot and the oriander between the aphid pitch and the nocular trashes.

I have writ a new storm of halter pattern.

Webcaul vermouth birth strophe entrained actuary
Eyeteeth a given snake at the flea market its storm
Hapdolt gorped one more lip one more breath before his barest silence
Shakeleg redress a certain murder but not the ditch-flowers remade
Monetary chamber a reticulate loosening my humanhord embrace infacient poorly
Trickedout hound ride on popo’s shoulder squawks like frescent parakeet redux
Sex at the mission always causes the fish flutter swimmy tickly breast feeling that taps out a Lordfist in the sky

Please stop your ribcage is now inside my ribcage it gives my brain a funny feeling today

Flayed the sour dreams
Intransigent markings
Mulch signified spring
Rosaceous tropid in bloom

A costumed prig my father’s face
A blasty curphid gone aquiline wind

We got gone could not remember the enblasted times
Four dimly paced mirrucles a tashening lope a time trotted scion apart from stinted forms

The idea of a fish bruted around in my forepaw
It was a silver mystery like that of a glen like that of many machines working in unison
To raise corpses from the timeless river with its stupid piers and discarded ropes
The sun beam down like a torture device and the wolf-clowns come true in fevers

Our arrival tired out the map

Sorry, birds.

Sorry, blessings.




My Fist Is A Variety of Mice Poured Down the Dandershoot

All the crocuses.

Weather shits out a braid of time.

Dead spot in my stoopery leopard cushion.
I configured a little home in blankets and warming thalidomides.

That’s a ratchet ass penis is what misery costs you.

What is the cost of hair?
What is the cost of pants?
What is the cost of electricals?
What is the cost of each cow that tongues its own bell?
What is the cost of adjacent properties?
What is the cost of a seagull?

Pronoun grown acetate in the mist.

Midnights have thrown upon me convergences.

Steep tea in the rectory.

The reliquary will not remember you.

I will be there in a darling.

I will be there without minutes.

I heard noises intended only for trains.

In claw timorous a history of antics. A stitching of markets on a very large topographical map and the red routes between them, dollars like think notes, dollars like skunk notes, dollars thinking freely and of their accords with pulsing material, tanquential astropods. Rusty paid for his life with his left clavicle. All the songs about him have empty middles.

Mike Sikkema

Found: an ocean in the moon, south pole a lens shaped reservoir, an ocean as big as a Great Lake, a Great Lake as big as a postcard, the moon inside out, all of the possible life leaning into hope of un-discovery

Found: a cartwheeling spider in Morocco moving along in flic-flac jumps faster than running, tubular nests of silk to keep out wind and sun, its locomotion inspired scientists to build spider robots to somersault on mars or the ocean floor

Found: a stone deer blind in the lake big as a small ocean, deer bright eyed under a moon small as a planet, a ghost caribou hot dogging across the sunken ridgeline,a stone corral like coral, the 120 feet of water made it a museum

Found: a misshaped swastika on men’s room wall looking like an injured stork foot

Found: multipurpose room # 234 where we gather for Active Shooter Response Class focusing on fight, run or hide. This is a particular kind of small talk

Found: a face on Mars

Lost: a face on Mars

Found: a news article on botched execution next to an article headlined Tiny Hamsters Eating Tiny Burritos

Lost: one pair of comfortable camo shorts, Gap brand, purchased for $3.99 at Goodwill

Lost: the birch path that used to run between hiding spots, ferns higher than our heads, it’s a swamp now

Found: a planet supposed to be solid diamond, no atmosphere, a bling orbit

Lost: 33 more pages just like this

Jeff Harrison

Perry Rhodan

citizens, raspberries, sick as a dog –
must this be spelled out for you Perry Rhodan

OK, then, scintillating Helluva:

1. accidents occur in NORMAL time

2. double-takes occur in SPIRITUAL time

one will give you a slice of glass
the other may give you the whole story

both are a PUDDING of illegal authors

(maps, budgets, biometric ghosts)

handkerchief full-bore, intolerable & mercenary
astrologically cranial, you, Perry Rhodan,
borrowed the skinniest for a second without so
much as a “wonderful money, you are are one
tough lady” & were promptly scooped, confirmed,
& dialed, sensibly, without so much as a “the
audience is my kind of town, leave no doubt”


“objection, Your Honor, my knuckles show white”


this still-life is hard to explain, the next
still-life is missing to this day –
infrastructure! over and over!

“a hint?”

“thirty-seven hours”

“ah, say no more”

Catherine Daly

from Insect Alphabet


Animals admitted into Heaven (The) They are ten: (1) Jonah’s whale; (2) Solomon’s ant; (3) the ram caught by Abraham and sacrificed instead of Isaac; (4) the cuckoo of Belkis; (5) the camel of the prophet Saleh; (6) Balaam’s ass; (7) the ox of Moses; (8) the dog Kratim of the Seven Sleepers; (9) Mahomet’s ass, called Al Borak; and (10) Noah’s dove.


           “Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise.” Proverbs 6:6

The piss-ant song is on tv.  The preacher is singing the piss-ant song with a choir to use up his free time on local cable.  He is raising money and has threatened to have the choir sing the piss-ant song again unless someone gives him money.  He is shouting the words of the piss-ant song, a song with lyrics of his own composition, his words, over the choir.  He is writing the lyrics of the piss-ant song on a blackboard.

           “A sluggard … does not love to read.”  Mrs. Harriet N. Cook
           “Without guide, overseer or ruler;” Proverbs 6:7

It is not necessary for the ants to be directed.

           Pound as the lone ant, yet an ant hill as civilization “ant is a centaur in a dragon world”

Stephanie Anderson

from The Ditties



The foreigner declines this entrance. In the dream, students won’t form bands. I have to fail them. Eviction and evacuation.

Thursdays it rains on the ellipses side. The east wind in a horse’s ear. He sweeps leaves from wet gravel. Sometimes trees need new roots.

A horse is vaulting horse. Cut, if need be, through thick briars. An order and accounts. It is possible to drink freely water.

It is not fun, it is not a hat. They’re practicing for the big streets. I fret. Popcorn line around the block, paper cups on ears.

It’s time to bring the zeppelin back. I dropped a round vase. They bought six miniature cars. Canned whale and curry sauce in the station.

Hope there’s something good to ogle. The best noise I’ve ever heard inside my head. The red of embossed Venus, the bamboo screen.

What do the harpoon tips say? Do one thing and do it well. Whale bacon at mask, like eating a dragon. Now it’s aged fish cheddar.

You’re welcome is don’t touch my moustache. Cut the leaf in arrowheads. We listen to the coincidence program during dice games.

Caleb Puckett

Given the Business

—It’s the time.
—To or of? Hour or our?
—Press shift and the secret key to see.
—Truth is illuminated in all capitals under the exit sign. The message is reflected on the screen. The screen displays a vision statement in flickering pixels. The statement’s layers decode with the Winter Solstice, according to my sources.
—Not so remote, son. Now imagine the message is really a high functioning contemporary mobility matrix balanced with robust parallel investments. When the world’s assets became digital the paradigm was reimagined, as was the need to innovate our ambient life. Feel that breeze cooling the core? Notice that hum in the air? Imagine where we go from here.
—Yes. Beautifully orchestrated. Certainly whizz-bang.
—We’re talking hardware, organizational and on-message with a strategic We of Legend familiarity for the folks at home. We’re talking uber-efficient policy and forward-looking approaches to administrative logistics. We’re talking money back guarantees on the wildest speculations and any failures for those associates in the know.
—Sharp customers! Balanced companies plan contemporary time-phases to implement projected regenerations. Lead on. I’m interested in these adaptations.
—We need three-dimensional millennial facilitators to thwart the resistance and celebrate the synchronization. We need outside the box consultations with modular integrations. We need upgraded 21st century capabilities with incremental homogenizations. Well-recommended interns are welcome as a matter of course.
—Of course I’m interested. Will I be aligned towards a window? Can I geek reciprocal logistics without undue contingencies as I climb?
—No doubt. The future cascades praise on your present potential. My fellow knows your fellow, you follow?
—Great! Paint me blue-sky transitional. My ambition rockets sunward.
—I’ve got your cloud by the alchemist’s numbers, son. No worries now.
—What’s next, then?
—Let me show you our little lounge. The couch is wonderful.

Marco Giovenale



$ 01

Here it was
I wanted it to be well understood
The old traveller said
To the young waitress
If only I was twenty
Was seventy
Was carrying in a heap of forks
Forks are good to travellers
Typed am
Mad @ you
Since it’s in one’s dna to decide not to show that much of one’s anger
The garden was so bright
Silence I presume did not drip down from the sun
It’s cold as it rains
She wears a depressing shadow
Under her red led cloak
Loops of time revolve
They invented it yesterday
She doesn’t find the clue



$ 02

Ought to mean so much
Heaps of polite citizens as well
Helicopters to the horizon
Premiere with Bond girl drinking
Fake scotch
That’s Mahatma
Or Ronald or
Feel I’m molecules of pesticide
Feel I’m the digital eye
Polaroid make believe
Pop up
Out of the merry steak
Keyboards move to Florence
Typing like mad again
We won’t see that merry face anymore
Landing on the Moon see
The rings of sand
Like boring



$ 03

My fingers I took a look at them
While typing
Well I felt a gap in time
So they didn’t seem to me like actually belonging
To me
There’s something weird or a pure delay
All around
I thought it was the shiny screen
One must always find a cause



$ 04

Must unravel it
It’s all on my side
Begging something
Always fix the issues
That occur
The boomerang question time
The hits of the day
Stay tuned pray
The joy
Will last forever



$ 05

Was depressed was
This the issue
At 8pm on pink-yellowpink tv screen
Two mins before the news
On the rags
Ought to say something about
Sex but didn’t actually say

Aaron Tucker

how do I even begin to answer a question like that?

rained all night against those strange windows

my handwriting clashes with the generic floral wallpaper
but I leave the following viral note anyways, propped up in
front of the dark TV while I shower, waiting:


On Error Resume Next
if (evaporites>=1) then
Copy (dirsystem&”\LOVE-LETTER-FOR-YOU.TXT.vbs”)
On Error Resume Next
if (confession) recreate then
spread to email
On Error Resume Next
if (downread=”millionhare”) then recreate
|| downread=”c:\”
On Error Resume Next
if (fileexist(dirsystem&”\ILOVEYOU.exe”)=1)
then randomize
elseif (sub infectfiles(saltwater))
endif (
female.Subject = “ILOVEYOU”
female.Body = kindly check the attached LOVELETTER coming from me.”
male.Send (“Good morning!”)



knock knock?

it’s getting late + we can only hear the Pacific
steady, like headlights passing in darkness
+ we’re bored so we start telling jokes:

a thumbtack + a bobble head doll + a USB key walk into a bar
the thumbtack turns to the bobble head
+ asks where’s the closest fried chicken joint?
+ the USB key replies

Nava Fader

pretending to / Refeather my arrows (Adrienne Rich)

for ornament or action
they will wonder

flew fletcher and straight to the stars
celebrity haircut a curl is a thing

of split vision paneling as it were
patience that light does

obey after all the laws
of physics put through

it’s paces give me twenty
a tremulo toetap give him away




thick black / butter (Michael Basinski)

butterscum cranny churns teeming
twitch twice the vitamins pellet
it a gold gleam uncork capsule
spill its entrails perfidy perfumed
puddles are hazards for the smallest

boys scabbard undrawn dungeon
corpse crazy ungain-
ly untidy traipse trails
knots with which to make

their undoing rappel apple
rapunzlelike repugnant the smell
your hair on the pillow urn armpit
secrets there do multiply

Carrie Hunter

From Vibratory Milieu

The heart has but one mouth.
The red lettering has been painted over with yellow.
As we get older, we see history more clearly.
It is normal to be confused.
Number zero zero three.
I don’t want to get my feet wet.
Then the light turned purple & twilightish and a huge fog came
& I thought ooooh its so low it will go right through me,
but it turned out to be more solid than that.
There are no details.
“My sneaking suspicion is there is nothing awaiting us.”
There are places for girls in your predicament.
Aversive to the landscape.
Pansies, that’s what it smelled like.
When I say left, I mean right.
“Obstacles are not problems. They are supposed to be there. They fit into the tapestry.”
People like us don’t change.
Dreamt Emily Dickinson was dictating from beyond the grave, she asked if I would add a dash into her poem, that she forgot one, and that it needed to be in italics.
All stick and no carrot.
One of those cities people tell you to like.
Dreamt I was an audience member.
Celibate cruising.
Like having a presentiment.
During intermission I wanted to get more golf balls.
Things become less solid, matter starts to fluctuate.
There was a point where I thought I might be longer but I changed my mind.
I have a small room but the rest of the house is not mine and I have very little
awareness of it.
The most ordinary morning in anyone’s life.
I’m not a parade person.
I understand a helicopter.
The poet will die.
Nothing’s really happened until its been described.
Because we have to be secret, he has sex with a pirate.
The free packets of coffee stopped showing up.
Images can be easily manipulated depending on the music.
The cats jumped in my lap, telling me their magical name,
I’d pet them for a while and then they’d jump back out the window.
Dream about eating rose petals.
Masterpieces are hypotheses.
You are never alone on a plane.
Everything is allowed. Nothing is possible.
I felt sort of destroyed.
Cement that bends.
11% of girls are deflowered in a car.
So many psychic moments today, all having to do with tabulation.
Doing nothing becomes an art here.
The economy is scary.
The chairs with their backs to one another.
Above the window is written like graffiti, Dragons Love You –
Trying to remember childhood feelings in my body.
Fear must be banished. Fear of thinking, fear of being happy.
The reversal of the reversal.
We stop at the motel.
The sunlight is a mirror.
My nostalgia is starting to bore me.
People stop walking and just stand.
I’m reading about the differences between the juices the way you read about wine.
She has written requesting to withdraw her resignation.
It’s the refusal of subterfuge. It gives way to lucidity.
The power of not saying things but influencing them anyway.
We’re in spiral mode.
The blue ticket counter.
Privacy is not a certainty.
It’s a feedback loop & nobody knows where the loop stops.
The aesthetics of the bus.
Dreamt we were impersonating either oranges or orange juice or something orange.
If a return is a new type of progression.
Can’t I just be afraid without a definite object?
This is in a hospital.
Facebook wasn’t built in a day.
I collect situations.
There is someone pounding on a door so hard I wake up
and no one is pounding on a door.
Abandoning surfaces or abandoned to surfaces.
The water here is nicely scented.
We can ask DNA to change the circuitry for us.
“Such a difference between what you dream about and whats really there.”
Had she lived, I could have solved the mystery of this resonance.
“There are no bad feelings or good feelings, just information.”
In a panic because I see no menu anywhere.
I can make her appear or disappear at will.
The influence the original sound exerts on the clone body.
We came here before we were born.
I’m wearing Nightfall.
Your subjects may be more adaptable than you realize.
No seven second delay here.
A man comes in and turns off the power, but the music continues.
Then later, with some people, I realized I don’t even have to go up the stairs, if you just stay there, the whole floor moves.
Still life with stuck things.
Like outside of the space where God resides is a space where God does not.
Say goodbye to the sleigh.
lemon colored sunlight
Happiness is forgetfulness.
He wanted me to read this poem, this amazing poem, and I did and it was written on this old man’s clothes, so I was reading his shirt and then I wanted to read his pants so he took them off and even though he was really old there was this really nice smell to his pants, like cologne.

Mary Kasimor

the a-rhythmical assembly line

dead bananas lay on the table
the elephants are out tonight
I cannot tell stories

animals are not known for goodness
they are not kind
while stars erase themselves
the words won’t let go

I cannot locate the story

here in a hungry room of counters
only cups of coffee for saints (they starve)

mother’s tea calming the wrinkles
out of breath on an assembly line for stitching
my stories don’t have connective tissue
misunderstanding the body
and spilled out for death
dangling in the dumpster

maps of bruises
dainty the kind animals are quick
a mercy kiss
a stick of flesh

a gallery of life consoles the unkempt
tree mouths on this tulip morning
flowers of land stories and bears
and wolves in fur calendars
the a-rhythmical sound of hearts
pushing out carrots

strings of blood

(a heart’s mania)
releasing spring blossoms and mercury
our dreams do not contradict tangled lives
besides the foods we eat are tamed
and digested through meat fingers
eating the unbalanced symphony
conducting in ditches

a period at the end of meaning
when it meant sounds
of the flesh gibberish
the burned bones of a carnival
in motion I cannot tell these stories

words won’t let me go
nor do they gather storms
of placement in coinciding patterns
or sleep deprived trees
dazed beneath fluorescent lights
when I kissed you the kiss was hungry

impermanence the irony of form
I poured over the photos
people disappeared
all the buildings are dying

rob mclennan

The opposite of harm,

       Pain’s absence, like a footprint in snow
       but the iron had eaten into my flesh
       there was nothing, nothing to record
            Hillary Gravendyck, Harm

Choraled, breathless. Bleach, and honey. Mirror-flat, unspooled. Or simply, pulses. Last. What worries me is this. If you could breathe. Medicinal. The underside, of linen coolness. Bright lights. Blade, a scalpel. Thorned. Reenergize, the empty cells. A stuttered brightness, perilous scene of contact, right this second. Listen, wind. If you could breathe. Words cut excess, list. Into the lungs, absorbed. A cradle. Deep exhale, rust-red. If you could breathe. Grey-crumpled ash, a smear. Estrange. This bandaged, battered montage.

for Hillary Gravendyck, March 1, 1979-May 10, 2014

Joe Ahearn


They would .do. Capitalism.
They proposal in and out.
They launch their hankies into air.

They would web Historic wobbly firms.
They would glut them and lucre the Wall.
They would impose a Waiting.

They would avoid the lasting Destruction blame, the going guys’ panic
       as derivatives fail their Historic “Socialism” gimmicks and pumping help.
Will less hoping and less bloodied Disaster Junk shut the Wall?
Shall we supper Bernanke the thrown heads of Gods? As he hunkers
       in spread sheets, unzipped for relief?

O, this is the crucial Decision Sachs.
This is the Church of the Air.
For Accounting is Many and Burnished and Gilt.

One longs for a lyric of simple extortion.
One longs for the Made Thing scarcely of Numbers.
One longs for a Pirate, the Queen’s Honest Thief.

Thade Correa

Where Does the Sun Go at Night?

Last flare of twilight
two birds        wings furled     fall silent
stunned by falling light

Sometimes walking alone in the evening, the sky is a quiet singing. Birds fall silent listening to fractured hymns of dusk filling the horizon with mists of oily reds and orange, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, purple. Everyone invents his own death. I’ll keep on until mine is redolent as a late sky flowing into night’s expanse. I’ll keep on—soon the day will deepen into twilight, my heart will bleed into the cooling air of evening, the last bell will strike, the last hymn sound, and I’ll set out, never to be found in this body again. In Cornell’s Where Does the Sun Go at Night?, two birds have fallen utterly silent at this question. One perches on a maple branch, his mind filled with evening’s colored distances. He imagines the sun’s falling light absorbed into all that is. The other, sitting in thick grass, mind suffused with indestructible night, imagines it vanishes into nothingness. Neither speaks nor is able to speak.

The question, it seems, belongs to us.

Raymond Farr

Houdini Returns

Grinding our words
Like meat

Into little manic sentences
Of unwritten music

Houdini has returned
Pasty & wan

From the overcrowded houses
Of the dead

It’s a razor’s edge this city walks
This city is fucked!

EXISTENCE is a stitched wound

In the movie star’s limo
It comes right up

To our car
& gleams!

Carrie Ichikawa Jenkins

55 we
12 part
10 them
6 people
5 things
4 lines
3 years
3 ways
3 talks
3 hundred
3 ghosts
2 yourself
2 thises
2 supports
2 states
2 reasons
2 language
2 guards
1 zip
1 zero
1 vocabulary
1 vengeance
1 vegetarian
1 universals
1 tourist
1 somebody
1 solution
1 skin
1 rhythm
1 revise
1 remove
1 poem
1 piece
1 picture
1 ought
1 object
1 identity
1 husband
1 however
1 honour
1 etc
1 citizenship
1 broken
1 boyfriend
1 basement
1 arc
1 anything
1 anyone
1 aftermath
1 abstraction



Howie Good


A bird flies off just as I happen to look up. Suddenly relieved of weight, the branch invisibly vibrates. They say a soul weighs, on average, 21 grams.

When the great sage rose at last from meditating under the huge shade tree, the creatures thereabouts followed him with their eyes, as though compelled to look by the crisis of the small bird that, gripped in his hand, was trying to spread its wings.

That was years ago. Strange black flowers painted on the sky by bursting ack-ack. White threads of the waterfall. Tonight I will try again for the music. Name a capital of a country. Change the first letter to name a familiar musical instrument. Example: Lima = limp, limb, lime.

Beg For Sleep

Some see the face of Jesus in a slice of toast. Some hear voices. Some line their windows with aluminum foil. Some stagger as they walk. Some beg for sleep. Some stare at the ass of the girl in front of them on the escalator. Some – and no one knows who exactly or how many – have been captured by robots. Some slit their throats and bleed out. Some are stitched back together. Evening is near, and sometime after dark, some float like echoes over paving stones made from the gravestones of the Old Jewish Cemetery.

After April

Begin sweet world,
street of broken glass
policed by mobs,

while somewhere
behind the wall
on which shitbirds
are casually perched,

a blonde chases
fold-up paper pianos

and a vast potential
audience of roses
shimmers in absentia.

John M. Bennett

the rolodex

louder hall and debt so
louder hinge inside your
arm debt coiling in the
polar vortex or the housing
index burning in the hall
was motion toward the
river and the itching
index in your eye was
ledger bonfire falling
from the window bon
fire knotted in your
solar plexus solar
plexis was your clou
ded river

…sea ,the swelling.



the sawdust

es capada ,nor intensa
,intonso was escaped and
hairless was a broken egg a
sticky comb held against a
skull was lentes broken
,narcos ,cabildo de sangre de
rramada was yr thought
reversion ,enrevesado ,fono
emético ,reversion of the
neck you left behind ,be
hind the bathroom mirror
which was la puerta ,mirror
toward the sticky stairs

…funerales ,y roncar.



the wool

drugged ape lint a s
ccrawl outside the he
headache’s s alted
wwind ow door inside yr
face what’s eaten ash
re lented w all et ched
with ominition saw
far back the throwobbing
forehead hidden in the
trees a blind neck a
blotted ear a fenced f
orest crawling toward the