Old Shirt

my gaping tub my inching leg my
tearing tongue my asterisk floating
toward that lurking drain my fold
ed finger spends ,your time gristle
,your heating heart your funneled
fire ,that’s my game my stunned
toe .I counted all the ribs were
left a typist stacks a meat watch
drying in the rain .this my whistle
skeleton my fog sugar fading on
a hanger




Slime

that sharp white frame I tangle
in my grease smeared on the wind
ow’s hurt glass air again a
gain I’s starts the same o
bleak angle of my feet again
st the thinning walk of time
if time’s just rotting so the
noun sluffs off and gutters
on the floor your eye is smoke
your grinning talk’s just fine




Mutter

the shape your phone came in the
corner of my sink what tutters
at me eyeless faucets sees
me took you water’s form
and lurched up through that steaming
hole so what I said inside the
melting screen’s a pointy thing the
end of V perhaps or maybe just a
cube of stinky air the nape your
storm named in the dormance
where I “think” ,uh ,mutters




Name at Sea

hull you nodded off the down flag
or wheedles did you ,maybe moths
an mutters canned the flickered knot
behind your neck it’s what the folded
page reburned it’s what you’re not a
custom framed the soggy sock stuffed
yr throat o speak or cough me ,name
or nothing .under the charring wall mi
retrato aguado my foaming face my
something floppy in the raining wind