Wednesday, September 10, 2008


Slot clots clog
the army cots underneath
an elevator shaft
access door If a man
without thumbs or hippocampus were
to enter through
number punched print
scuzz the iron basted
tilt-a-wheel scowl in oratory
exile for to break
one's own rules is one thing but
to break
the rules one
breaks rules
not to break
is a sin only our 
evolution can atone for
Today little girls lay
laxative slothed on stone
carving troughs to drink
the blood or 
bowels of leaky diets

The yerba mate's stainless
straw claws through 
its own perferations and holes 
imperfect eyes of fingertips 
waltzing up your metal spine
or would you watch
as I bit the thumb off
another messiah while circumstance and
death presupposed
the gapskinned soothsayer's
a softened pot boil over.

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