ten fourteen

in shells
of selves

i cup
these
neuroses

grains
of sand

pearlescing
in unsui
and

sweet
salt
water

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.