Front door

The invisible building up into shadows. The bitter urinations and heaps of broken bottles and the alphabet squeezed together and puffed up above the sidewalks. Painful cocoons. Blistering wombs. Pigeon explosions. Deja vus filling in any gaps like armies of ants and yellowed caulk. 

Bigfoot looking at you through an oily lens. Apocalypse gathering steam in dreams. 

The fringes tamped back down into tatters scattering in the wind, and then nothing. Shadows turned invisible, mere chalk outlines. Gullets frothed, cardboard soiled, grunts thunder for worms, warmth only for fleas. 

Rather than grab

Rather than grab
your hand
and let you lead the way
I would
bend and fend and wend and ...

never look back but for the need of salt
to pour on my wounds -- stuck in a circle, digging it down.

Poison in the betweens, those horrid and boring and giddy
things that clog the fist-filled gaps, blood leaping off smiles:

Mirror stares cookie-cut with emotion

curled up at the sides and open to interpretation

beached carcasses turning back into fleas and scurrying away.

This tunnel we are climbing
does not give way; keep clawing and clawing
whether the sun is shining or life is winking
out.

The End of the World

The truth hurts

Judgment Day ditty

It's the thirst that asks the question of the void, self-absorbed and unapologetic

and everything is breaking down outside: a gas-powered table shaver, beheaded hippopotamus high chair, bubbling wheelbarrow growths, yawning skyscrapers of rust, m ...

and we listen to overplayed jingles on the bottom step of life, cramming preservatives into our nanoparts -- and carve out new souls in the cellar and fill these with nails, caulk, cardboard, fur.

The kneeling
The sniffling
The preening
The growling

It's the void that stumbles upon itself and decides it needs an audience, mirror upon mirror

matetherial

Lunch crowd resale
oozing poison plastic smell
eyes are cameras are lives that nobody is paying attention

Monuments of compartments, clawing at the insides

edible longitude I pass you by
on the way to the air, de-veined from the mountain's gorge
a shadow departing spectacle