Eeven the illusion is real
because the illusion that anything; any one or multiple things could be an illusion
must be illusory
the illusion itself must be something

And so it keeps going
unfolding and congealing
unveiling and spiraling inward
and outward
holographically shattered
and yet complete
maintaining wholeness
until the music stops
or changes
becoming that song
that one true song that makes you stop
too tired to smile
and yet smiling
beneath the mantle of... read more

Psychomotor Agitation

It starts with a groaning. In front of the classroom a man emits groans. His voice is full of stomach sickness—timbres that speak of pain. His voice could be segments of polyvinylchloride tubing smacked with the flat of a palm. Or sex noises. Gale squints her cheekbones high up into her eye sockets, and twists her head up. To see something out the window during class, to take herself along with her eyes. The easiest of escapes. Gale is wan and her neck is especially t... read more

waking up in the city- well afternoon- the workers
are getting off work-
my hair as tangled in dendritic misfirings as my
closed fist mind in my pocket
pooling through thoughts
some shit song out the grit black spaghetti holes of speaker pores
and pours a menu before me demanding decision
A thought of a lover, a smell on the hand, a memory ruined with words, a disease, a host of fears
the angelic keys to an organ to the heavens to the crown and temple of my
high holy head i... read more

How many hamburgers to Montana we asked once over on repeat moss growing stones to roll
between fires blurring lines beating tireblazes
gazing behind the back of black spots
Calling pupils to the eternal horizon
prognosticating wicker fruit bowls make no guitar stands
still I learned to rote my poems
while writing backwards
riding sidesaddle with sticky keys on eighty
feeling like a double entendre left in the right lane
slowed below the storm clouds above inspired scratching on pa... read more

In the beginning the spirit moved across the silent waters, and silence moved like spoken tongues to dream. And in the beginning there was sound to song. A grunt. A groan. A roiling slap of skin and bone. The flat of hand to hide. In the begging there was the drum and to the beating of drum and the dancing of bared breasts like the drumming of thigh upon cock. In the begging there was a bird. A bride. A night. An herb. A seed. An eye. In the begging was night, and night was divided by a flic... read more