Two-Timing Slim (I Heard of Him)

We got there into socks into
shoes? On to the bass: blues.

We are there into Lethe into
death? Off to the Arctic: Meth.

We ate there into conflict into
cost? Out to the heavy: loss.

We laid there into science into
fable? Up to the chair: table.

We hoped there
into exhibition in for

plush? Down to the
bottom: lush.

We fled there into
sequence into per-

spication? Faring at
the last: sensation.

In Still Lips

Breathing labor,
darkening. Light habits

used-to-dress in the capital.
I pray, I advance.

The embossed, slightly aged
logorrhea as elixir aloft

a

middle pass.
Spoken of in circuits.

Atlas. New. Blood—
orange binds of mandarins,

folded in halves, captive.

Face-pain stretching the distance
of an epidermis,

choked down methods surging,
river swinging in still lips;

they’re azure, white, fallow
chips, sapped, dancing.

M.’s ephemera: sky-bound splinters
dredged into Brazilwood,

tampered down dynamics
(sotto voce designations).

O’s scribal novitiate’s captaincy
bearing? Finished out salvage:

pink embered, half-Portuguese
astrolabes. The persistent

thrumming together. Branch
feigning. Crushed-up incisor.

Intra/psychic methodologies select–

worshipful of Joaquim Maria’s kid’s
welling, red iris.

90 miles South, I might-as-well
adjust ninety.

Yesterday-afternoon’s heliotropic
rhythms again, this evening,

a lowing of tautological
verity. Stubborn; titular; cased

relinquishing pictographs.
Infestations

of a formal, anthropophagic,
constellated hype.

Huckleberry (After Huck’s Tune)

If being is light

and time
is a sight

hang a nose on a rose
and come in

If circles get square

and blinds
lose their hare

hang a bill on a sill
and come in

If the smoke gets
so much

and my cup
has a touch

hang a cone on a stone
and come in

The shore’s gone dry

or today is
a lie

I hang a chain on a train
and get in