and maybe it was all in my head which
may be a seventeenth-dimensional
projection or inscrutable code for
pixels and such, or so they say, either
way for a while I didn’t have much
fun at all then got a taste and
got real sore waking up like that
and who knows what other stumbles
Sometimes a light nothing fills me
and I want to burn the forest
but my sweet nib smooth paper it’s
something for the mumbling ghosts to
gnaw on while I cross-hatch for an
hour gumming those juicy mistakes
Tag: head
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I was on edge I’ll say because
of too much sun why not and it
didn’t matter where we stopped for the night
I just didn’t want to go back
and trap myself. Again. You have to move
carefully when you find you’re a
head in a jar. But I’m so tired. My
words wade the short cold waves and end
where they began in a still mumbling mouth
forever filled with acrid liquids
wolfed by the woof and warp of unwashed
waters all the days of this half life
for half a dozen or so bubbles that
break with awful scents and few clear notes
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Sonnet
with false starts buzzing around my head what do I do do I recall one fly I cut in half with a glass while trying to trap and free it—then sculpt some little line to be stomped bloodless by the sound of boots on the ceiling—so do I then try to persist with this misty I and words like persist—but to speak plainly there is no window in which to speak plainly about a small flower past my boots that I wish could fly into colors that open a window into a land where I could lie…
but now I’m cut in half and half of me
may persist and maybe that I will fly
other animals 