We’ve talked a little about the horsepenis and change and luck and the way things come down. There are cartoon voices and a jangle of keys at the station. The penis is abandoned or postponed for old age. Sop up the sperm of these swift cheap words. Through any window piss is raining from the…

Most Fridays only contain three or four hours of teaching and then the afternoon and evening are free. God it is nice. Here is a revision of an earlier poem. Still in the works, but moving in a better direction. Think the manuscript is changing. Prodigal Drift is no longer the right title. Primal Verge…

it is announcements like these that make me wish I were still in North Carolina with the Lucifer Poetics folk: Announcing MIXTAPE (the Reading Series) #4 Mark you calendars now! Mixtape is a salon-style reading series, where invited poets will read “mixes” of work by writers other than themselves. Host: Chris VitielloWhere: 1106 Ninth St.,…

There’s a he and a she separated by slender wood. The graver engraves and the wood isbitten into. Who carves and who is carved really doesn’t matter. Who bites and who is bitten depends on the occasion. Please observe the sound of a broken flip-flop from your bedroom window. It is summer and a city…

There’s a he and a she separated by slender wood. The graver engraves and the wood isbitten into. Who carves and who is carved really doesn’t matter. Who bites and who is bitten depends on the occasion. Please observe the sound of a broken flip-flop from your bedroom window. It is summer and a city…

There’s a he and a she separated by slender wood: engraved and bitten into.One broken flip-flop clops along the wooden floor.Each footfall sinksinto sand. A final whistle cutsthe air as eachmemory chugsaway on forgottentracks. Romanticrubbish is stuffedinto recycle bins.To have been is to becarried away and pushedopen by the lidless.I must mind my memories, minethe…

Scene Speak Katowice centre has the highest percentage of limping people per capita. The table in this café keeps tipping. Hands won’t get warm. Ice cobra of the mind. Caution for the darkness that rumbles from the post-communist trams. Glops of kebab stick to the pavement. Fingers null. Old homes mold holes. Word my brain.…

Maybe you had wooden fingers in a past life

Bloodlump bit my tongue on some thinned-outPolish bread and it’s a bloodlumpagainst the invertebratemovements of the tongue when with contempt the exposure of dust in the daylight: a fertile stasis abovethe hills of a shelled-out city: the liver deposits unconscious memory: from bloodsimple that wish in the water: to think it’s true asleep among the…

have to tilt a little to the right but new glasses are back with a new lens . . .

Neighbors 1 no eternity without mythical speechtotem mud paints the brainclay codingsseven to nine stiches suture the minda paradise of blemishesmusic drawn like conceptsbetween meaningsvisions in the mudpit Neighbors 2 crazy oblivion terminates in the nude bathing in pine needlesskin stripped from the bumthe most inquisitive childrenon the sundial of the dead all good people…

In fact, there are only two things in the universe which are simple, and one of them is the universe taken as a whole; and the other is its language, because its language is its capacity for love. And the capacity of the universe for love is that for which man was born. Oh yes,…

The third half SHIT HAPPENS, that’s howthe writing on men’s toilet wall ends.This is the worst –to walk with such hungerof at least minimal glow – to findonly this, the writing at night toilet,that’s how it looks, pussycatand that’s how it ends Dogs make love on the pavement. I pretended a tenorfor fifteen minutes, till…