Archive for October, 2012

Corpse Paint

I am not about style I am not

about appearances I am not

about the timeless age of dusty

grey I am about life I am not about

the buried I am not about to dig

through ambiguities I am about

words I am about pinning these

pretty things to my face to let

them dangle and create I am not

about signs I am not about life

I am about silence I am about

stingers I am about the journey

to the center of the self I am not

about certainty I am about negative

space I am about the lighting that

makes us into demons I am not

about trends I am about being

cool I am about dragons I am not

about self description I am about

self destruction I am not about

being your victim I am a victim


I, Homunculus

Little man, help me comprehend

my own grotesquery from your

home within the mother sphere,

say the throat is ragged because

you have made your station, your

laboratory in some dank crypt long

since cast into memory and folklore

of the land of the uvula, smack your

freakish lips and explain, you live in

me and there turn lead to vials of acid

and gold, your eggs grow in the valleys

of my twisted brain, little man, can you

take the blame for once, I am infinitely

regressed back to you, I am small and

horrible too, feeling, floating, waiting.

The memory of water

I have heard it said that the toe

dipped gingerly into the shallows

to test the bitter chill is inexorable,

call it a ripple effect, call it what you

will, but water swarms the leathery,

repellent skin like fat, aimless honey-

bees, dangerous only when threatened,

but wait, I have heard it said that this

is the greatest threat of all, organizing

a slowly malignant onion that brings

tears to the invader, concentric shells

of hydrogen and oxygen grasping at

magnets, the horror builds and grows

until the self-centered human is justified,

he has bullied the ocean into a new shape

that reverberates through its depths, who

knows how long it might last before the next

insult, who knows what the fish thinks when

he glides by the hexagon’s apothem, an electric

chill coursing through his spine as he imagines

an epicenter somewhere at the water’s edge, some

world he cannot comprehend, and so he will not try.


These woods are a fine place

to meander, one comes across

these mushrooms that grow

like glowing orange brains out

of the rotting tree stumps, and

I know they say you’re really not

supposed to eat them, that your

liver metabolizes them into some

chemical compound that’s the active

ingredient in rocket fuel, but, well,

I did eat them, three or four or ten,

the whole mess sliding down my gullet

like giddy butter, and I don’t regret

it either, prepare to be amazed by red,

yellow and orange sparking from my

fingertips, I am the one true rocket

man, it’s crazy what you can find out

here when you know how to look, these

woods are a peaceful place to find one’s

true calling, to learn how to ignite, to

fly to the moon, or even further reaches.

Channel 2

I got me one o’ them new “self-definition” TV’s,

all the rage in this navel gazing economy, only

thing higher than that incredible pixel count

across the wall is me, that’s right, no typo, and

it’s not like the parameters really matter in the

first place, this is a special kind of TV, you ain’t

even have to turn this thing on, just position

your face a few inches away and see how the dark

absence makes it shift and change, makes it warp,

and hey, who’s that funny looking kid on the other

side of the screen, do you think he’s as pensive

and confused as me, do you think he likes what he sees?

Die Young

This is the new American dream

for good, bad or ugly, to eliminate

“languish” from the vocabulary

of the nation, to send a listless

generation to the sky to take part

in Virgo and the rest, to let my

people go from the shackles of

earthly boredom and responsibility,

to throw the underappreciated years

into the wood chipper, that’s right,

rail against the whirring teeth, so

impossibly, mechanically perfect,

“you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone”

these words are never stated but they

live in the whispered corners where so

few dare to fully tread, welcome to

the modern standoff, no matter who

draws first, I promise you, we will

never live this moment again, not

precisely, not exactly, I think I may

even be dead right now, will you fall

for my plan, memorialize me as the one

sorry son of a bitch who knew the words?


I’m going to hold it here.

Give me a second.

Give me a second.

Like a treeless plateau.

Like a driveway.

Like a handicapped access ramp.



Ratchet ratchet ratchet down.

Hm, uh, we’re still a little obtuse here.

Obtuse at the old elbows.


Like a tuning fork.

Like a biceps sine wave.


Down, down.

Give me a second.




What now?

Hah hoo hah hoo hah hoo hah hoo.

I am a coral.

I am a suspension bridge.

I am ricocheting through time and space.

So you say the next step is getting up from here?

Kevin is a transvestite

inspired by the red marker on the public bus that said…

well, I think you know the rest


Kevin is a transvestite.

Kevin puts on things like push-up bras and lipstick and occasionally– a jumper.

He says it makes him feel alive.

I’m only guessing but I imagine he might.

Oh, Kevin–

Kevin is a transvestite.

Is that still what you’re supposed to call a transvestite– a transvestite?


I only want to respect you.

I mean to say I do respect you, but I want you to know that– I respect you.

Kevin is a cross-dresser.

Or at least he cross-dresses at times.

 But some would call that “a cross-dresser”.

Oh, Kevin–

Kevin is a transvestite.

I’ve heard it said that Kevin’s braver than me, that’s what people say, and I believe them.


I’m still deciding how to ask you.

What’s it like feeling like something you’re not, or being something you’re not– or something…

Is that how you experience it Kevin?

Or are you just being Kevin?

I think the world could learn from Kevin.

I think that I could learn from Kevin.

With all these words I sculpt a Kevin.

I get a carbonite-bound Kevin.


Maybe one day I’ll meet Kevin.

Kevin is a transvestite.

OK, Virus

Virus, I understand your push for equanimity,

but I would beg you to also strive to understand

my inability to condone your actions, each of us

negates the other I suppose, predator, prey, don’t

get me wrong, given your limited size and means

I would probably be a virus too, brought up hard

in the slums of some homeless smoker’s lung, well,

I might figure out that the only way to keep believing

that old American Dream! (beginning to fade through

a lens of ground glass) would be to harden, to embrace

those stone cell walls, to invade and subvert and work

harder and smarter, don’t bother explaining, we all got

kids to feed, bags of DNA to send out into the wilds to

propagate,  but you crossed the wrong doorstep this

time is all, surely you can understand our reciprocal

relationship, you of all people, don’t act like it’s a surprise

that I would ever push back, fumigate my home as you

lay and twitch inside, look, maybe I’ll even reflect on

the inborn nature of your tragedy, consider your path

that looks a lot like destiny before I close the door on you.

Haiku for the fall insomniac

night simplifies red

orange and yellow down through

the sidewalk’s black stroke


streetlights toss and turn

on purple faces that know

no sleep or comfort


all these best ideas

quiver lost in dark blue grass

then melt with sunrise

Nixon in Wonderland

Only Nixon could go to Wonderland,

could sit back and phase into a leather

back and armrests, wandering through

the American dream. The red queen

fears this dandy Nixon as he skips

and leaps through the forest, letting

them eat cake, and in so doing grow

to suck all the oxygen out of the room.

Nixon is mad, paranoid, Nixon is both

raven and writing desk, we’re all Nixon

here. Nixon raises a dance finale through

the great hall, ladies sweep through with

yellow parasols and long cigarettes with

holders, hey hey, tweedle dee dee, tweedle

dee dum, can we twirl through this thing like

brothers, Nixon is in Wonderland now, let’s

just call it a day and play a little table tennis.

Two and Four

The jazz club claps on two and four,

not this one and three horseshit they

teach in the Catholic choir, the worst

suspicions live on two and four, like

this tenor saxophonist with the bangs

that shield a single leering eye while

he bops and hunches his back on an

amphetamine craze, he tossed a rose

on two and that girl, maybe fifteen, tight

shirt or massive breasts or both, caught

it on four, the imagination writes the rest

of that story as the boozy patrons lurch

out into the brick cold, last call was at

two, but nobody really moves until four,

turns out nobody is in charge, just that

red light that turns innocence over to

the proper authorities, casts the whole

place into hell, keep clapping, nobody

knows if it’s two or four, and it hardly

matters, the last beat brushes right up

against oblivion anyway, the song is alive

and then it is dead, now these junkie teeth

chatter two and four, waiting for the next fix.



hey you

hey i’m talking to you

what are you doing

what are you doing with your hands

oh is that some kind of sign language



don’t walk away

where are you going


are you going to a cabin where the night falls like quarter sized hail

i have a place like that

i have a place like that only it’s on a lake


i have a cabin like that is what i mean to say

did you understand

i didn’t mean to belittle


has that space between your teeth always been there


it’s really not so bad

i thought you should know that


who are you calling

is that the new one of them cell phones that you can talk to

imagine that

a woman who actually listens

am i right


i’m sorry if that came off as offensive



i’m sorry

i looked away

have you had those headphones in the entire time or did you just stick them in there

in your ears

can you even hear me




can you take those headphones out

sound is generated by a traveling energy disturbance through air


so if you keep those in you won’t be able to hear me



do you believe in god

i mean really believe



i’m not religious

i’m spiritual

well if you don’t understand now i can’t possibly explain it to you

hey you


i want to try to explain it to you anyway

it’s like


there’s a reason basically

there’s a reason i ran into you on this autumn day

you know

each of us at the peak of our enjoyment of life and all

it’s like

we’re synergistic

you know

we have an exponential effect on each other’s happiness

don’t i have an exponential effect on your happiness

to have this conversation here today

that’s the reason

it’s why i’m here

it might be the very purpose of my existence

of your existence too


doesn’t that make you feel great

doesn’t that make you feel like you want to just stand around and talk all day

Rise of the Bayesians

I believe there is a 72% chance

that they might twist their gnarled

yellow fingernails through desiccated

soil, scattering dust among the plots

in a decidedly abnormal distribution,

I believe in the plausibility of this

proposition every night while I shiver

awake at 3 AM to an outside sound

that has a 100% chance of being

horrible, maybe they are calculating

from beyond the grave at this very

moment, I believe that is more likely

than not, and every morning that I

wake up whole the numbers spin to

their new home like slot machine reels

and freaky eyes, they’ll come crawling back

soon, these horrors of  believing in the problem.

The pursuit is worthy, but perfection

remains frustrating in the realm of

the imaginary, so imagine a perfect

terror pulsing off the screen, pixels

flash like oxygen therapy, forcing

their way down your windpipe into

the core of your being, then pulled

away, torn, helpless but to submit,

but are you really strong enough

to turn off the whirring hydraulics,

is imagination all it is, or can there

be room for compromise in the dark?

The Rebirth of Mothra

Mothra thinks about four years ago,

decides she probably is better off, who

are you to say, human, Mothra is alone

in her cocoon, she waits for change, she

watches all creation, Mothra imagines

her egg like a smooth, sweet sapphire

sinking to the ocean depths where it blends

in and phases in and out of reality among

the weeds, Mothra will tell you something,

Mr. Would-be, your power is nothing next

to the frequency of the crying trees, Mothra’s

heart is speckled with complexities that will

not lie down to fit your rhetoric, she has seen

her son fall to powers that the tip of your finger

will never even graze no matter how high you

jump, to think this is somebody’s golden age,

not Mothra, Mothra seeks the light in a time

when its sources are scattered, Mothra can

wait four more years for her radiant wings to dry

and unfurl, Mothra can wait forever, but remember,

she doesn’t want to, Mothra wants to love, to fly,

to soar out of the atmosphere on a thermal current

of promises and lies, yes, the world does not deserve

Mothra, so she is beautiful, kaleidoscopic fleeting, gone.

Dr. Turbin takes a tincture

Pass me that little dropper, I must admit I’ve got a terrible

lurching all through my nerves and yes, it must

be said, small intestine, so I’ll just take a little


BBBBbBBbBBbbBBBbbbbbbbbBBBbbBBbBbbbbahhhhhhhhhh wuh wuh wuh


h-hey and what do you even mean “you’re not supposed

to shoot it”?

Gah eeeeeeeeee ahhhhhhhhh

OK, phew, there it goes, quivering fingertips get the point

grain alcohol, eh? 180 proof you say?

yes yes! there are worse diluents I can think of

what’s this here one for, cause, uh, because I can already feel it:

constipation impotence hair loss fatigue diarrhea depression psychadelic rages hallucinations (wait, no, there’s one) well boredom hurty teeth too hot too cold flatulence did I already say impotence cancer facial paralysis photosensitivity ugliness tiny little balls melodrama being annoying urinary frequency and urgency diabetes erection lasting more than 4 hours acid reflux hemorrhoids hemorrhage infertility not knowing karate deafness beefy red tongue productive cough double vision triple vision cowardice earwax snot allergies drug addiction

they are all…


H-h-hey man, here’s a crazy idea, just thinking, uh, what if I drank

you know,

even more of that there herbal remedy, actually,


here’s one, can we just take out the nasty ass tree root you stuck in there and, get this

just drink the grain alcohol!

Let me tell you a… a thing or two about evidence-based medicine here, boy, which is that I feel great,

I want to tell the world, let me at em let me at em let me at em, I’ve found a cure for this here human condition,

it works, let me show you how….

The Mechanics

Dear J.F.,


Thank you for choosing us for your routine scheduled maintenance!


Here is a list of items we couldn’t help but notice (really, we tried to turn a blind eye, but come on,

you’re not fooling anybody) while we worked.


  • The head sort of leans forward, caveman-like, like it’s perpetually about to fall asleep or squint at another monitor.
  • Don’t even get us started on the leaking.
  • OK, since you brought it up, there’s just like, fluids, man, that’s the best descriptor we have for you.
  • All over the place.
  • Just a guess based on how it lurches and starts now, but did this thing used to get better mileage, like, I’m thinking maybe back in college or high school or something?
  • Exhaust pipes appear original and should be replaced.
  • Gets disproportionately angry about things.
  • Exhausted.
  • When you step on the brakes just right– there, do you hear that?
  • There are a lot of those weird little whimpering noises, the stimulus barely even matters.
  • Those fuzzy dice are just ridiculous.
  • Poor sport.
  • Takes these wide, boxy turns.
  • The fuel-injector is becoming manic-depressive.
  • Sweaty.

At this time, many of these issues require urgent consideration and repair. You have the money, we have the time, what say we gut the thing and see if we can zap it into new life. Worst case scenario, you can always get a new one, something flashier. Call us any time, but have your credit card ready.



The Mechanics

Night is when we slake our thirst.

my head didn’t always weigh this much,

you know, bobbing elastically with rage

and sad trombones, I think I was born as

something different and then at some point

converted, oh yes, it’s all coming back to me,

my words used to be crisp and unslurred and

meaningful, right, I wanted to be an astronaut,

that child still exists somewhere behind the

fangs, or so the horror story goes, but I have

been inadequate for as long as life has found

meaning in comparisons, there is an eternity

of wanting that hides in the alley, if only so as not

to offend the rich folk, remember, work your way

backwards to when their question was not toxic,

what do you want to be, what do you want to be,

what do you want to be, and you behind child’s

eyes never thinking: I am the vampire, I am what

you dream about, I am lost and made of clay

The Ruiner

Aha, there is a positive side

to my alter-ego after all, that’s

good, it helps to refocus in

the wake of serious trauma,

not to mention the fact that

they’re tearing down all the

phone booths in the city,

where’s a guy supposed to

reveal the big red “R” on his

chest these days anyhow, but

yeah, I had to have my face

amputated and replaced with

dull, depressed rhetoric, been

rehabbing the injury for twenty-

three years now, all my conver-

sations have had the vowels

removed and replaced with

lies and insults, I feel like a

brain tumor, but hey, the positive

part, let’s get to that, everything

is as clear as the ice I want

to fall through each March, we know

who ruined it, we have a creation

myth for every failing, somebody

call Alvarez, I think I have a few

ideas I could tell the world about

who killed off all them dinosaurs…

I have to write a poem tonight.

There is no point in writing a poem tonight of all nights,

not when the moon is just a cold rock on a sheet that

somebody poked a bunch of pinholes in, not when my

face is just my face, and not Yue Laou’s wordless scream,

“how dare you conflate and Westernize me?”


There will never be a topic for a poem on a boring night

in a boring world, there is no frame of reference within

which every atom in my drooping eyelid is its own small

planetoid of infinite probabilities and random motion,

such staggering odds that the astronomer figures there

has to be life on one of them as I roll over onto my stomach

to bury my face in a pillow.


I think I will simply not write a poem tonight. There is nothing

to be gained, nothing to be proven, nobody to prove it to, and

tonight it seems I am truly devoid of thought, call it peace, sure,

and let the devil take his place tomorrow, let him try it later.

This one’s for Plant

Plant, I’ll just get it out of the way now:

I don’t expect to ever fully understand

the connection you two had.


This is not dismissal, but a measure

of respect.


What I do understand is the wandering

heart that bravely crawls up the trachea

to experience its surroundings for the first

time, new and freshly watered.


I really do believe that calling you a lucky

bamboo was more than simple advertising,

if only because she tells me so.


Let’s compromise, Plant.


I want you to know that I will be shaken too,

I will bury you too, even if my eyes stay dry.


I can feel the weary history that made you yellow

with a toothless smile of age, fronds like an embrace

of nothing more than constancy, and that was always



So: I will bury you too, and feel unsettled myself, even

if I am never to know the details.

Oh ho ho, I get it now you son of a bitch,

I, uh, comprende, this is just say that if

you thought you could relieve yourself from

the ballistic sort of like crosshairs of intelligence

brought to bear by my gaze just by being a

(supposedly! only supposedly!) innocuous

spider ensconced underneath the porch

railing in a web roughly a whole damn vile

disgusting foot in diameter, well, let me just

give you a newsflash, as in, I’m onto you, buddy,

not the least reason being that you’re gone now,

web and all, oh I get it, the human beast being

one primarily capable of understanding contrast,

right, the deeper goal was never just the terror that

I might rest my hand on a railing for a (seemingly)

reassuring support and come away with a nasty,

hairy stroke of arachnoid leg and foot, surely not,

if that was your only game you would have stayed

there until I died or moved out, right, whichever came

first, and sure (some would say, but not I) you probably

just washed away in the wind and the rain, but what

finality is there for me in that conjecture, I wonder if

what really happened is if you packed your flies and

eggs into a little rucksack and hitchhiked your way

across the woefully under-militarized border of my

screen door, yes, the true punishment is the absence,

the “now you could be anywhere”, crawling out of my

shower head, cozying up in a comforter or towel, yes,

or trembling in front of a cheaply framed photograph

of my smiling family, yes, trembling with rage at all

the comforts I enjoy without even counting, I bet that

last one’s it (did I see something out of the corner of

my eye?), but I’ve outsmarted you at last, maybe you’ll

even learn your own object lesson about the power of

negative space and absence (ha HA), now would be a

very good time for you to start, with the first licks of

smoke knitting fractals in every dark recess of my home.

The ivory tusk was born at six o’ clock,

aspiring through the pink and grime, and

already Jeff could sense the slipping time,

feel his pelvis gripped in the fist of the hour-

glass’ isthmus. By seven there was already

the pain of the triangle, this aching, engineered

geometry, a suspension bridge over which

he could only run his tongue. Jeff’s face grew

drawn and haggard at eight, the suspicion of

the clock face’s unstoppable progression now

confirmed, these women, these women, can

they ever meet your eyes? Nine was perpendicular,

pointing out at the dance partner, accusing, a moist

and glistening shelf. Ten defied gravity, defied

the ricocheting photons with hidden eyes and

hidden smirks. The next hour’s electronic tear

drops whisked through the steel hands that

clutched at them in vain, holding the rose to

the chest as the petals fell away. Jeff knows

what must come next, for midnight is vertical,

crawling back to the world’s center from which

it was born. Will it even hurt, this razor chiclet,

this bullet in the brain, shot forth from the muzzle

of every backdoor conversation, every ghostly eye

that drops, every laughing middle schooler?

rags to riches to rags to riches to chicken soup

to caviar to the moon to rags to shoot the moon

to zero to pi over two to pi to three pi over two to

riches to rags to two pi to two two too to zero to

maximum to riches to rags to riches to maximum

to minimum to negative pressure to positive pressure

to chicken soup to pi over two to riches to the flop

to the turn to the river to down the river to rags to

facedown to riches to cocaine to rags to riches to

guns to shoot the moon to pi to two pi to obtuse to

riches to rags to the grave to beyond the grave to

rags to riches to minimum to maximum to beyond

Buzz around the room, right buzz around,

buzz around the floral patterns and buzz

and ample breasts and OK let’s not be

reductive buzz to tightly stuffed crotches

and the lights and colors and pheromones

make it impossible to see this to buzz to

see this as anything other than a good thing

that trickles warmly down your ear like blood

or cerumen irrigation, buzz, buzz, buzz your

way to a conclusion that this is good for your

species of loiterers and criminals and robbers

that run through the streets with armfuls of

hastily plucked roses, OK, buzz, buzz your

way around the logic, buzz your way into an

onomatopoeic sunrise that sounds like buzz

and sounds like concentrically strange 2D waves

of silk and satin green, buzz, drink the nectar,

British and Chinese and Russian and scandalously

young orchids, the field is morphing and growing

before your eyes, buzz, remember, at its core,

evolution is a theory of probability, sure, buzz to

her about that, see what she thinks about that,

call it love, call it a contrivance, just make sure

that whatever you do it tingles, OK, and the arms

clad in purple and white spots will rise and fall like

the mountain’s chest in winter, uneasy, waiting.

Marco’s Pizzeria and Sanatorium

(bumbumbumbum. bumbumbumbum. bada bada ba baaaaaaaaaaaa……..)

The name’s Marco, niceta meetya

grab a chair and grab some pizza

I’m afraid we can’t releaseya

til your phlegm is flim-flammed foam.

While the pepperoni’s gleaming,

oh, your kiddies will be screaming

“Can we (coughcough, coughcough) have some more-eeeeeeee…. YUM!”






America, have you ever had that same old dream

(tell us again, Marco, yes, we all have)

where your ribcage is flayed wide open and you can

see that your lungs have been replaced with these

weird little vaguely oblate spheroids, you know nothing

of entomology but cannot help but conflate them with

cockroach eggs, oh poor old conflated inflators, this

is you, America, this is the whole world in your oozing

granulomas, breathe in, see if you can flatten the whole

thing on your little finger and twirl it around into a frisbee

that will rise like the moon in the oven




A pizza party can be fun

when you’re hawking up a lung

my commercial’s over… we don’t wanna bore-eeeeeeeee ’em!






I have no feet but I must walk

You will know me by the path of circular

divots in this depressing, hungry mud,

I am motivated and miserable, driven

to hunger for things with four wings

and glowing eyes in the swamp, here’s

the thing, what if I’m really not faking

it for the dramatic, swooning attention,

what if I really do keep losing my pill

bottles on the city bus, well, can you

risk that, mister shiny beetle-shelled

psychiatrist, I thought not, push me

through these steps, tie one end of

the chain around my waist and another

around a monster truck and see if you

can pull me then out of the fields of

butterscotch and raspberry wine, I’m

sorry, let me take a few deep breaths,

I’m not an angry person, I just get down

sometimes, and I don’t like being accused

by the stars, OK, just give me a minute,

let me get my balance on the stumps,

the gnarled ancestors long since lopped

off, chopped down, believers never walk

alone they say, do you think that’s really true?


I understand how you feel, I too have been there,

but let me assure you when I am Class President

this will never happen again, no more acrid shouting

from upstairs, and free soda for everyone at the cafeteria

I understand how you feel, I too have been there,

but let me assure you when I am Secretary of Energy

this will never happen again, no more Heisenberg Uncertainty

Principle, this all seems dangerously imprecise to be called “science”

I understand how you feel, I too have been there,

but let me assure you when I am Attorney General

this will never happen again, at the very least, the American

people will understand what the Attorney General does, with all

those cigarette carton warnings and

I understand how you feel. Yes, I realize now I was

conflating that position with the Surgeon General

I understand how you feel, I too have been there,

but let me assure you when I am President of the United States

this will never happen again, no more aliens descending indiscriminately

on our turf, not today, today is the day we declare our


I understand how you feel, I too have been there,

but let me assure you when I am God

this will never happen again, we’re bringing

back the McRib, can I get a “hell yeah”, America

I understand how you feel, I too have been there,

but let me assure you when I am elemental Nitrogen

this will never happen again, gotta get mine,

call 78% a shortfall, with my new strategies, I will

do away with the tyranny of oxygen, argon, carbon

dioxide, neon, give it back to the masses, join or die

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The forgetters ride at midnight.

They are lost by default, that’s part of the fun,

the forgetters have forgotten where they even got

that collective nickname from in the first place.


This is ironic, no matter how you feel about Alanis.


They spread forth gingerly from the frosted glass

door like a diffraction grating, painting themselves

on the night in that familiar on/off red/black pattern,

that impartially accusing robot’s eye.


The forgetters Poisson distribute their footprints in

the stale, yellowing snow, looking for a lost friend,

a lost set of car keys, a lost reason.


The forgetters were once rememberers, like you or me.


Their eyes slide to the bottom of a blurry page, two

errant drops of blood. Soon they will forget what they

were doing down there in the first place.

Nobody’s omen.

I am melancholy today. The fog

curls deliberately around the throat

of the mountain. A dead deer.

Staccato through the trees. Leaves

blow in vortexes. I can see through

the pressing rain. I can. There is no

room for commas tonight. Delicate

in the wind. Too tired. Meaning.

The road is blacker than usual.

Missing letters from church signs.

I deliberately do not compare

the wine to blood. Tomorrow will

be a good day. I am sure of it.