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Tune Origin


Oh front-yard fling of paint on my door,

you don’t love the easy, do you?

My organs paw dust at every corner;

no machine keeps an accurate blood.


I will write you a word Cerberus:

pit bulls and palimpsests

of fined drawls and crow’s nests.

Here’s rehearsed, recalled the fire


time. Numbed way into the cradle,

oh a float compares to the banshee

shore’s torpor—I’m at sea

(I’m not home.). I’m salt. Utter


word distill, and I fear

this flight will never glue down.

Manic mass drinking in dreams,

this is a finals jam; I’m your jab


for the night. This height, mother’s body

melting out of the casket

into the earth sluice. Flank of benign

ghosts of noise (Lynyrd Skynyrd). I believe


that someone will have me

as their paperweight pockets tonight.

You got a tall order, and I bet

you’re wondering—five shots or six?


On tired attempts to lift weights in the shed,

oh body, body boy, oh atoms dad’s

bred—guppy mouths, gappy-hole boat in bay,

and daily compromising photographs.


The thrill is gone, someone said with marks skulled

and boned. Mental minimal, these goats in my sleep.

I’ll call you and call you claw lines in the stoop,

however, this is a story I hang up, unpaired.


But sweet thespians with the market-to-market

lips on your eyes, I rise to a bowl of cumin

in my lungs; liquid brain. I’m a howitzer to your

holidays! This story I recapture, this thing I offer committal.

Subduction Factory


You paid in kind, that is

to say you didn’t pay

at all. This will either be or be


riddled with to be’s.

I live on an avenue I haven’t

committed to. I live with


a inhale skip I haven’t

captured since Air and Space

Museum simulators.


I have seen a power it

moves, but we don’t know

what makes the core.


I know that each year I pore

under you at the rate of a fingernail.

After this whole look-in


book, I had one thing to

say to you but it was

smaller than an article.


Your room a prism when

we, heated, talk not unlike

mirror scene of Enter the Dragon.


This middle of the middle

of things Ozark calm bubbles

of green was an old thought,


steam blower. When I molt

onto the earth I will slowly

become unspecified mineral.