From “Threads”

Vast and Red


It is like a moor!

the loneliness cried.

This body cannot die.

put my rockish cenotaph

down in soily peat bog

so that I may live



What is the color

of closing blank eyes

and a lifetime passing by

without seeing this

very small girl



The sense of the gruesome

is well developed

in some children

more than others.

Blame eyeyes.


She sees infinity

when she closes

her eyes

in tiny




Lacunosa OR Mewling at the Pillow


In 1987 everything was ready to begin:

                                that chimera of lines and clear boxes forming

                                what is meaning but meaning? Very well.


It did not erupt in order. Many things erupted along the way into swans.

                                You are seizures and I am patterns

                                you are “quartz” and I am “pearl”


You did unfurl at dawn into a white morning glory filled with drawings

So beautiful as to be insulting,

so fucking wonderful, friend.






you are a strange loop

of lizard turning to

pencil turning to


a lizard with wings

is a raven

a raven turning to

swan turning to



when stars pour through

your mouth and

blades of grass


a broken record

like a broken record

                                                                                                like a


like a broken record

trillions of people die.


stars are the architects

anesthetics are to see

god is a doberman

and you are an infinite cruelty.


On Later Falling Apart


In one apartment light streams

warm and blue, through a moon.

Lapis smoke swirls and spreads

like the memory of a distant sound

while the TV picks up the lost pieces.


Outside, a galaxy sizzles like a fried egg

picked out the emptiness

before chewing its nebulous albumin.

I would like to fall deep into

its gaseous lips, silky oil slick

blooming hot and thick.


On what did Atlas stand, then,

when the dust sparkled to stars

and oaks shot up through cracks

in reasoning and eggshells.





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