It’s my own ghost I can’t get away from.
Living on the high wire, the cries of peacocks
mold your babies out of the lichens
I sleep cradled in, candles lobbing gardens

into my dreams. I tamp a cigarette out
and ripples plume like the mooncalf’s
nipples, fat as apples,
waiting for teeth. Your night sirens like to ride

etiquette and property, muscles stung and greening
bulbs break pendulous earth, mocking hours.
All night long. That morning, the lowest octaves
came blushing through your gardens, shelling milk

from pods where clocks seed the bedroom, upchucking
stars. Think of my phenomenology
as menagerie, bestial catastrophe,
lets you ferment and pass away.

I am feeling this cold against my bones,
a million-miles-an-hour crystal razor.

Took a pill just this morning, white sky guts
glossing the carpet, the jets
Mary’s congress and need of congress with her
waking me every morning to kiss and say
goodbye. I have this happiness.
There’s always been a running in me
away, which I’m getting over now.
Ice is slow. Ice is beautiful.

Not everything can be beautiful?

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Though in all honesty three is enough. Blushing susie shows it to us, tripled along the spine where ridges accrue snow’s flaccid erasure. She just lifts up her shirt. Four, of course, would be too kind. You’re too kind. You watch the snow bouncing along the yellow halo of the streetlight; they’re all yellow and blue, to soothe and prick, the silence of the road having some time before caused us to pull over and sleep. With her chin in her hand, as if she’s thinking. Everything is beautiful in winter if you’re low enough on the food chain to have to look up. The sky fractured porcelain fissured by bare famished trees. Footprints wrinkle the snow along Florida ave, making commerce possible by clearing a snug path for us young, us languishing into ages here. The sun even at this angle flirts with us.

Five would simply be too much.

O beautiful Italian horror film and wanting for everything and beautiful Lady Frankenstein investigating bankers of sorts collect money for me woke up pissed off or kicking everything out of my way elsewhere plenty smeared the glasses the bolt-cutters think of touching me could never even dream that I could love him while the door swings open left by the kids on their way to school behind the milked-out sky chalked elocution gibbering through nudity fight scenes cheated me expected to find ivy throttle at tooled bitter yellow velour

A smear on the glasses is a password roaming mortuary countryside unencumbered spherical references to references to no soul in music sick-bay Kirkbones aloof from kids screaming or birthed that rejection from her searching her own skull for surety signals I don’t even think there’s that much to do as in getting back to basics and ugly experimental poems trap everything I’m seeing on the screen right now in captured rupture pumped full of grazing over looking into typed file requiem median jumped across and divided me into roll a joint roll another joint ubu roi as the grotto torpedoes nowhere every sign with its sem3nimpure runes sketched jealously across arms fissured with skittles the rainbow skittles the furniture onyx like that that that this is daylight that this would low mother mexican bat armor pits and onions deja deja