Children eat fried pies and
come quickly when the boys call
Period stained panties
fresh from the ceramic cracked
Take out the pies, yes
They’re not ready
but still edible to young palettes.
Sugar takes cellular form
into pancreas
pores
and unsightly neck freckles.
I’m a liver and two ovaries.
One head, and a hat,
a golden brown baseball bat.
I am the fur growing just slightly beneath your chin
that hangnail betting on an open floor
that kitty in the window that keeps crying but he sniffles
Just give me a place to rest my head.
I’m strings of aluminum accentuating each minor breath.
Sit back. Down.
Oral fenced skirt scarf caress
her one more dwell hour
The little lolita flips the paper pieces into
An oh not mouthing an e but
Denouncing said existence this way
She began at the nursing home today
right after high school let out
and her nail bits fell off
Jade still chews them with such brute that
her black pencil eyes swoop down
and chisel neat slots into her wrist
with pink pen
hard to twist around in a wheelchair when
internet clowns slide through the spaces
paralyze her at 13 years
she’s the new flat facade this side
of 2 east just hours
escaped on a ballpoint pen
her face was found swiftly after
planted on a keyboard stuck on Y
several pages in, almost the word allotment
beginning with blue flash puncture here:
www dot
We all know you now that your papers hit the floor
She’s been there thirty some years
playing with skin fusions.
Death barer,
you have no idea.
There’s a dust bowl in your belly
Swirling around your 43 visits to the nurse
One nurse. Small town.
I don’t blame you, baby, I don’t blame you
I’d be with you now if it weren’t for forceps.
Three day cap on tardiness
You’re coming out whether you’re fresh or filthy.
Babies rest for eight? Nine?
I was stained with struck marks for days-
medical dunce cap.
Bloody sludge pockets filled with scabbed scabs
Food service arrives
but you ain’t takin’ the plate.
Instead some eggs drop down
onto the pedestal with finger tips slurring through
that fall quite fast when decay begins
Decay of what just began
Fixed legs that become one
7 ounces a piece
2 gallons of pain per square inch
until the knife works itself in
and carves out the torn matter
3 lbs. 6 oz. Mummy cries now.
There’s an olive in the center.
Don’t stare at it- we will hear you.
Just bags of skin that walk around smiling, really;
feasting on fingernail tips and split-end frizzles,
feet tapping until noon
when the mailman comes, delivering bills
and two-cent checks.
I could sit here mumbling all day to
cigarette butt flem rolling over and over
across the table.
L. My name is L. My ass is plastered to this Lazy Boy
because I won’t answer to the mail man
anymore.
A woman put me here 3 years ago.
She thought my skin went nicely
with the dollar store shower curtain.
Now I rest upon a tower of bed sores
and decaying fecal matter.
I still look good with the curtain. It’s rusted over now.
I’m still here, but not long.
The police came at 8:16 PM Saturday evening.
They say the stench was so
that grown men cried like infants.
He was there, seemingly alert
but his nails were baby blue
and his hair frayed to death.
He was 43.
The paramedics wrapped him in an old shower curtain
and carried him and the chair through a wall cut-out.
He looked like a cradled child, still fused with his mother.
His neighbors said they had no idea.
The olive explodes
and his person splits in two.
Springed heel
to get the deed done
(Sicari shrine of nem).
Nemi will eat Tyler
then Chris to Rifkin.
(Laureate, no, no food).
Your name isn’t image,
but the buffet stands too close.
You have to grab it.
Shy line
to the door
(Lead the way, Gabrielle).
Unit by unit threads
pump the tongues
of waiting colleagues.
(Mouse,
you’re next.)
Silence
means
me.
The words say over and over but poetically dead so I breathe
Breathe to the fantasy of not holding it in
not crying when let in
not climbing my way out
slow pedals of that ladder
I won’t see for it
It is what I told you yesterday that I’m in love
No
Love of love
Quick distance for cancellation
Covered in cans
You can see through but
That is
That is all.
That is all I can give
but fuck I’ve got a lot of perception
Just ask the man who lives up there
He sees it but creates it
Say hello I’m the jester
speaking puppet words
This poem isn’t written by me
It’s him.
Wake up.
Slurred screaming eats away at the bed
Sheets smother face in pity
{Don’t leave; you’re here to die.}
I won’t see for it.
