for my poet friends--

let's write to find the edge of Hell

Eurydice is the anatomy of our song

it echoes out the damned

they wait for our mouths, wet

words: some spiry angels bloated

in our lungs to bursting poems

we thought this was what love sounded like

we thought we touched something

a blitzen dawn only in our drunk drunk sonnets

there is no body here--no LIGHT

I am little more than breath

words again: failed LIGHT

another cut on my hand

another breath to work through my cuts

or to find a little god maybe

no--I've got no hands to mend

no hands to patch up these failed words

here I trespass on the SUN

and I've grown into my own criminal echo

learning to die

(e) AN O (t)(h)(e)(r)

According to a popular representation, time is nothing but pure flow, the incessant sequence of instants along an infinite line. - Giorgio Agamben

an oxygen atom,
#,
linking two        (or more)
alkyl, ______,
can kill                a cow    (or more)

but that wasn't 02.21.11. the song simply
stuck in.

a twin
or/and
china
and/or
gemini

eurydice isn't
real but still
waiting            complain
            more (the end of the hall)

{{{{{buzz}}}}}

felled the big one for the breath

song     sung
              —the making it up of—

empty feast    the pittance

a transparent boon

our I blows it through
            her trachea
                        ripped from 
alms
            an island is a chain

still waiting for eyes

A/E/vers/ion

“i wrote this poem

for digesting

or my brain

gets sad”

[these] hallways# [have begun to] complain[.]#

recalling# exactly[,] a [stand of] tree[s]#

on ventilation.#

hymn#

not the actual [sound of]#

rupture.#  [still,] you can’t#

lay beside# the banister [this time].#

DNA#

this is why# 

there will be {no} [a] party[.]#

to sing# you[‘re]{’ll} hunger[.]#

meat#

remember# that shit.#

stuck [up there,]#

like a prayer[.]#

_________________________________________________

#01.16.03

#04.15.12

#07.14.01

#06.14.01-03

#13.16.02-03

# trad., arrangement - hamlin

#11.07.01-03

#08.24.03

#14.04.02-03

#09.14.03-04

#05.17.02-02

#trad., arrangement - hamlin

#02.13.01-03

#15.86

#10.05.01-02

#03.19.01-02

#trad., arrangement - hamlin

#12.08.04

#12.24.02-03

#08.01.01

#11.31.01-03

HOLD FAST, STICK CLOSE, THE SURETY SPINS DOWN

We who we
are, below the

shade of evening, illumined
and sweet.  The meat

is lowing.  Breathe

in twice, once
for each.

Meat

Let's go through

the glory hole 

"scenario"

darling. The idea of mystery sex

even beyond anonymous

not even sure what's touching

your marriage tackle. 

Diet matters

with this. When you're dealing with as much protein

as a porkchop. One gags more than the other

on the swallow. Vegetarians know things.

Avoid garlic and smoking,

eat a mango if you're really worried.

Ever disgusted by the smell of pig

food--food made of pig, bacon's cool

but anything else

makes the house smell of fleshy,

scalded electric stove--I can't help

but think only flesh

flesh flesh flesh

and a pig's skin sunburns just the same

while it lives.

There is a velcro to the teeth after

chewing up meat,

a gummy pull upon opening the jaw

not unlike the way DNA on the fingers

sets so quickly to sticking.

A bottle from KS

You’re looking skinny little
darling. It’s not what
you eat. Pull me out
of the wall! Cough cough

Have you been through
the glory
hole “scenario”?

Heaven under. Have you
grasped? Pull me out
through wall. Eat eat

It’s not that
you’re caught. It’s just.

DNA, man. DNA
gets you via cheek
swab. It gets you
in the fun way.

Your kid’s
crying.

Monroe's Manhattan (KS Jerkin')

the innocence of a youngster wanting things it will have by the ton in just a few years,
couple that with a sense of entitlement and just try not to sound like your parents

now imagine President Kennedy wants a drink, let's say it's his last
now what would the youngster do, let's say he'd be in the keg cellar fucking Marilyn Monroe

i want to walk down any residential block in a large metropolitan area
and pretend like i'm watching it on HBO