ten thirteen

it’s a civilized
cave-in,
so
no
need to worry.

watch the commercial
munch
chips in denial.

denial tastes
like dr. pepper

& double-pattied
cheeseburgers.

hold the onion.

this kind of
life wasn’t meant

for strong flavors
or any

discomfiting
de-delirium.

build the bubble.
block out,

blunt

all the rough
edges.

ten twelve

life
at the point
of tears.

eyelid
cliffhanger;

latch on
to lashes,

or fall.

cottonstopped
on a
heave of
bosom,

or carpet
crash & 
trampled

underfoot.

ten eleven

i don’t need these
arms or this skin
& bone
anymore.

i need a
long stretch,
a dilution
of self

across all
the planes
and plateaus

transparent
transcendent
transience.

done with
bodybound
functionality

& the story arc
of this
dimension.

ten ten

a writer is a
one-man crowd

lives without

& within
series of
concentric
circles
concentric
cycles

all twisted up
in cyclones
of self
of selves

on shelves.

ten nine

speaking of stutters
they’re all in fingertips, an
excuse,

the anti-rhythm of patience,
of directions i’m moving in.

move for
movement’s sake;
move because stillness
is still stifling &

sometimes you have to
shake that creative
juice
loose

prep those fingertips
for a nimble
numb untie
of the

noose

knot

really a
noose but the
daytangle of
monotonous schedule
& all that

adult responsibility
three hundred dollar insurance
coverage, cobra
slithers away
with so much of my
money.

spits in the eye of
every escape plan
i just
can’t sir.
cancer.

so you gotta have it,
gotta keep plugging away
at the everyday

for pay
the grey

turns to
gray

& you
stay.