Dear floor baby, you fucking lurcher, your floor bench, bilesome mechanical nest. Motion of layered no, egg the great goose, pained brow. The snapping light, notion of being the only only, notions of once-men. Dear floor baby, your plastic sax, lurching sadly just like you.
Love Song for the Public Imagination
In Hasenböl you stroked gurgling beams out of my pretty hair. Lunch among summer’s hydrocephalic maple. Nine stones frisked the sky like a body of water. Hear in the sputter of a motor an inadequacy. Once in a while we are two of everything. Nestled in found stone I let tongues come off me like sickbird feathers. A cluster of sores about the knee’s converse as white and safe as clams. In airwave broth above our heads electric plankton are possible television. Water to our left was our left, a death I had, marking up the trestle. Two hours of easy, unexplainable loss. I want to tell you our laziness is a sort of protection, being capable not entirely our control.
Tribute to Nijinsky
I am in the predicament “I have to piss.” I go to the forest checking my anus. In the forest a trail of blood. I wander further into the brush. People tell me words I pronounce are not right, not real, their faces clown the dust. Beat of the birdcreeper. A no-no, no-no. I wander further into the brush. I sit and squat to piss. I confess a thing or not.
My crotch is wet, I feel it for it. The air hangs with dust and jeers. My jowls flap like bags of meat. I further into the racket. On the trail a noise of blood, a type of fire. Trees nuzzle my hair for I am God in man. I write all night because He wills it. I am an artist whose voice is dance, whose piss is blood. I write a cloak of dark over the foliage. My loved ones will abandon me. Trees whistle and I itch.