Destry Rides Again

Looking forward to looking forward to a nice,
quiet death. Can I be particular about it?

Extinguishing smoking cigarettes in empty
library halls has destroyed more wonderful

seconds; I have been shot up and through
with liberty’s valence, before.

Looking forward to looking forward to a nice,
quiet life. Can I be particular about it?

Jimmy Stewart was the finest actor Indiana,
PA ever birthed—close to calling what

we do galavanting across the city, though not
until having white milk with morning pepsi.

Re-awarded a twenty-nineteen-submerging-
poets-fellowship solely on the basis of this

stabbing sensation in my middle-aged, book
peddler’s back—without everyday monkey-

wrenching, cynicism loses a certain sort of
charm.

Looking forward to looking forward to a nice,
quiet poem. Can I be particular about it?

The Common Room

Sensible nature (to me):

little house
on the prairie tree

beachside hill
in a company of three

too close for comfort
too close for thee

my picture’s window
its channeling spree

Time’s disciple’s note to service,
contracted. A silent mist,

deposed of erotic articles,
cellular.

Memory’s first
engagement, the re

entered spearmint

unfeeling: of settled dusk,
flagrant blonde

bobs, black, glown
yellow on yellow grass.

Sunken, plastic-like chords
basting, foundling

shade of fragrance,
non-whitened, or

knotted, drooping
off-white.

Wedding Jacket Flap

In night my breath turned often
as I burned
with Christ’s circumcision
twisting off gold
spun wheels
meeting Ungaretti’s concision
by a red tied bow solemn
and burnt

At dawn came parakeet whistles
poisoning dowries
swishing out wine belew
rose purple
of Lot’s boyhood
fallen beyond
Leucippus’s teaching
of encaved
divisible atavistic pain