Gregarious songbirds peck at the amorphous
Amorous faces of sleeping gods whenever they please.
Ghosts invent languages and forget them instantly.
It is sick to wait
For an animal to howl into black foliage,
But who could resist the temptation.



10 thoughts on “less

    I am neither the man on the rack
    the man who puts the man on the rack
    I know you fear me
    I know that you are ashamed
    you could fill the grand canyon with apologies
    or $20 bills—it doesn’t matter
    the sun sets son
    bed, lavatory, soap, towel


    • yeah i am ashamed of the grand canyon
      and proud of each $20 bill (although
      i think they should issue $22s instead)
      the sun lost its track long ago
      in case you haven’t noticed
      and burned all the towels we could use


      • a masquerade without REAL towels
        I know you cut out catalog images of towels
        but it is just not the same
        ———how to double-deuce a sadomasochistic paper bill
        the agony of the clerk behind the cash register
        the agony of the people waiting in line to check out
        ———a poet comes in with a $22 bill and tries to purchase booze
        I am always amazed at your preoccupation with the track of the sun
        you can sleep sound tonight—the sun can take care of itself
        a poet perplexed and fascinated by the track of the sun
        a boy who kept a copy of “The Allegory of the Wolf Boy”
        under his mattress
        with a photo
        of his first


        • the seventh line should be scratched on the firmament
          the problem is, the angels would promptly paint it over
          according to their disgusting habit
          that’s why heavens look so dull and uninviting
          in comparison with any other place


        • in order to be preoccupied with the track of the sun
          i should know it in the first place
          but as i said it’s lost
          what if it runs right through your mattress
          every other night


          • city folk have what they call a “mattress”
            myself and others sleep on piles of straw
            if the track runs near my area
            I will know almost immediately
            busy concentrating on “EQUUS EROTICUS”
            not the usual Interstate restroom horsemanship
            a tiny space for lunatics
            no room for sinners
            and criminals
            open to innovations
            and $22 bills


            • city folk sleep on bare parquet
              and don’t have an opportunity of stealthily cutting a chunk
              out of the side of one of Helios’s oxen
              they lushly paint idyllic scenery in their minds
              as poor refined Theocritus did in days of yore
              they mix their lunacy with wafts of exhaust
              and drops of gasoline instead of crystal clear dew
              tossing and turning on those varnished patterns
              and they have never in all their wretched life
              seen a $22 bill
              so please don’t treat them rough Michael
              they don’t deserve it


  2. bare parquet—the surface of binge and purge
    Florida being the home of cosmeticized nourishment
    huge plates with life-sized food
    obvious anatomical masculinity
    eroticized bright pink
    a testimonial color
    ————————————overweight readers want more
    ————————————death through suicide (living so much worse)
    repetitive language
    lazy people store the crap in libraries
    we have three Robert Frost Collectives on our street
    employment through cancer
    rectal gets you a front desk gig
    the more terminal the better
    thumbs up for adult diapers
    two in the front—three on the rear


  3. old poetry sleeping on a matrimonial-sized bed
    the bride a would-be lover
    found it difficult to be divine or devilish
    a romantic corpse
    brittle lips
    all she heard was “tighter-tighter”
    so tight nothing could enter or exit


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