I want to sit on the floorboards

Only my thin-skinned bones boring holes

I am thirsty for something else

Waters have a sour side on Sundays

With citrus peeled by bare hands

I don’t want to wear gloves when I hold food


Thank you, great big goons of squalid ancestry
For sheltering me from the ones who give away
All the sordid details of my nesting squawk
I’m here to retain my daggering
You forget your clovers in the hooves
But wintry ghouls remember how to pass you through
The shattered green blades of glassy grass
Opulent but not very beautiful
Nothing to write home about or
A home away from home
The point is that it’s not enough to talk about so
Even if I cloak myself in their dark robes and
Roam about ghoulishly in the roundabout
You won’t care to hear me go on and on about it
My mysteries are enough for me
Nothing is simple but it’s a simpler thing than
Eavesdropping in the coffee shop
Where dishes clang against my head
Full of bread and copper lenses
I can’t tell it apart
Swimming little simple things
Swimming down to the spring
Where the tales found me
Only a fruit out of season could
Bring reason in a velvet head
Arthurian moss out of time and place
And all I can chew is cardboard through lace
My hands are out of practice but
My arms are wild

Baby Nenuphar

I thought I could kill my creative self in
Fits of fragrant fury with
Sweat stinging my eyes
Breathy bugs clinging to my pools
I am many ponds together in one
The child of lily pads you call me in French
My brow is furrowed
I am fields away from terraforming myself into
Something else less violent
More crisp or maybe smooth
Must I use the word soul to mean feeling too much
Or enough
Or that giganticness
I want to feel moss against my face
But either way I can’t kill the sun or sooth my sobriety with any potions
So I am these murky pools
Lagoons of all that longing
Brimming with foul things along with glistening

Article 4

Quick-distilled thought: article four;
575,000 brains in unison
On their own time

Pencil edge, ruler smudge, 20,054
The ghoul in the great coat
With the grey ghost of a goat
May begin to demur
For you or to you
Or who can really know?

I was here before