who are you?

Let me cling to your neck like a cur, make your face homeless like the bare side of a stone.

Let me flank you like a fly-over field, infest you with the bitter dry duets of mating cicadas, chase you like the pill bug.

Spread you like the bulb of lightening’s shell, its panorama a sheet held high above the houses on your block.

Let me be the kick back, the round brass plying the leaf from its root as it smolders after use.

Or the wooden rook with only A to K, seven, no spaces.

Your pet bird under good graces, your gulping handle, two tires, cadillac.

The shears, the curls shorn, the felled tongue of your amphibian typewriter.

Your long sheets, still with folds, concave with sweat.

Ukaihs————————————————————————————-
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(1)
seed underneath thumb
wet felt skin of seemed self
blue delta of leg
======================================================================================================================================================================================================================================—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-(2)
notes to unknowable gods
hair knots in messages for kids
left town to tow clouds —————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-57575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575757575

(3)
we slayed soothsayer
spit into sinkhole like black eye
fold halo suitcase

(4)
connect the dot back
fold time trap into mold
cheese oragami
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
(5)
deadline sapphires break
fingers bend horizon
dirt like gator’s shoes
”””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””
(6)
know the teaching taught
intrinsic without one sought
the quasar burns old
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(7)
the flat match breaks sound
a quiet man’s reciever
space is not static

Words! You deserve so much more. Why can’t I exalt you? Why do I give a flip about people? Is it because they inspire me to use you? To love? Attempted hate? Other things not so simple? Look at these hands! They look so productive and beautiful when I make love to you! I am sorry that I am not faithful,but I will always come back to you!

What wide open window sings to the opera of my road? Peace talks go un-shamed on sills, as her yellow heels wrestle the craggy climes of a cola-colored rock. The hue of her hair now tawny in the gutless clouds of day. Her torso crisscrossed in Dahlias, repaired by the bandage of a brown leather belt. Her form—indulgent to the demands of her language, which is undeniably feminine, jocular, down-home, but pressed, not only for time but for neatness. Her cheeks, a wet meal for a perfected smile, the fat of each one waking in easy buoyant bells that chime to her every word.

Perry marks the back of the yellow pamphlet with a red pastel crayon in the shape of a heart. With no hard surface he finishes the final detail on the edge of his knee as he teeters in a clearing, near the verdant edge of his father’s forest. With the pastel, now crooked in his mouth, he examines his work and pulls a ratted swath of hair behind his left ear. Perfect. He winks at it, and takes several paces to a large oak in front of him. He pulls a thumb tack from his pocket and pins the paper to the tree. Through the stiff thrum of cicadas he can still hear the bark of the tree crumble and the pin insert itself as if it were the teeth of a small animal enjoying the pithy innards of a fruit.

One Gun:

Gun muscle: which is the tender meat between thumb and forefinger. Enlist it in bunches, perforate the rental contract on your semi-automatic. Do not slobber, and keep it steady. Gain full use of your faculties, teach them well, then send them on sabbatical.

What a rough life behind a gun, especially for those who aren’t malicious. What purpose do you have? Gun for passion, gun for blood, but never, ever gun for fun.

More Guns:

Hot tangled mess of your hand in a bed of dead leaves, retrieving the empty shells, revealing just how much time you have to disappear. And think of those who are un-gunned—running for their lives in your personal battle royale. What will you give them? The sharp edge of a laurel leaf? The stamp of taxation? Yes, tax them, damn them, deport them, but don’t keep them within this acreage.

Touch down in Dallas, Texas has brought a first for me. Upon arrival, I glance out to the horizon only to see a sky the color of brain matter. My first sighting and comprehension of pollution, smog. I call my sister in the drowning noise of the thrumming cicada-like sounds of humans going from point a to b. I manage a spot near the food court, where everyone was gulping and tearing, hunting down tables and chairs. Everyone eats well here, talks loud and lacks any sort of solitude. While eating I decided that Texas was maybe not the place for me. Which is fine, I never had any aspirations for it anyway.

I have to wear gloves to massage the dimples out of your boulder and sawdust filled skull. And your hair is merely splinters, the sheath of which is a teak wood, mined from your mother and a sub-tropical forest in China. My urge is to pull each splinter out, even the silver ones that catch the light of our only lamp and lay them under your pillow so that you may dream about care and origin. My lap, where you lay is embedded with a code of contusions only your head could engender. These muscles know the night moves of a nurturing vessel. They labor hard and need kneading.