Poetry

my little nubbins are truest buttons, fuchsia-shiny, squat; skew
slewing over my pot, from my weak limbs faster […]

And can you be so sure when his widow cat-rubs your shins beneath the table at the great banquet in your honor that sex hasn’t changed in some serious way as it does every eight popes? […]

I put my faith in accounting
in coinage in metal in paper
in plastic things weighted […]

Hair in my hair, tongue
on my tongue, we shook
the snow and the Earth […]

Between Frank Zappa and Varése, nothing’s left
to listen to but the static between stars, […]

Such gumption arrives noisy—
these sinuses, notions of territory
hoisted and collapsing with tiny reports […]

sleeping alone
acrylic dust coughing my throat
fingernail posts splitting like thirsty pine trunks
[…]

in her fruit hat, & that’s no banana b/c no one here is happy
to see me. B/c I’m taking it all— […]

Rain and rain and something close to living

The radio hums but it’s the silence we listen to […]