3 Lines

My adversary removes my house.

His name walks among my artifacts.

He pays me a tip for leaving.

Dance of the City

My brother,

The energy of the planet,

Inexorably travels

toward a day of payment.

Skilled workers of androgyny and antimony

Mine mint mimeographs.

What is absent?

Is it the gift?

The powers that are

Cannot remember if fish are needed.

My eyes

Without permit.

Thrill shivers beneath my surface.

Light candy.

Stripping pink silhouette,

Like wallpaper,

Like lover.

My cloak is a cloud,

Dark, and rolling over me as a storm

over a fruitful plain.

Call me by my needs.

Can you tell where I’m going,

All finesse and shard?

The space between my thighs

A confection.

Lockpicks reveal the world

gnarled like dusk.

chloroformed dolls

in their Friday night best,

monthly installments of fear,

Stoned stones,

Testify the presence of a blueing breath.

Screaming in your room,

The horrors of an indifferent night.

the spider that wove my house
has only loaned it to me.
At my table,
cigarettes burn and puff
from nothing.

Everything is an appearing act
in a universe of inexplicable birth.

When the spider lumbers back from
his hunt,
I will be given a key to my blood,
and I will live in my life
like wet in water.