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These aren't poems, they are non-metered word-quilts.
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Bad poetry I am to a poet
what a seashell is to an ocean. Still
I can hardly seem like an artist with my prick out
before the wind — really I was just
waiting for the right moment to come
with heat and vocabulary entering
my life like a spider into a brain.
Eggs
used to wake me
everything I do is part of death
it is like all the space between us people
is one big body shuddering. This also shivers
between my ears
following the breeze out from Dallas
what am I doing in this town listening to sunsets?They sound the same as fireworks from across water. Should begin living
my life a bit lower beneath the noise of so much alcohol. I
miss television and the sex that belongs to teenagers, but
no longer burn with desire, only rest
as warm as a warm bath. I’ve seen the women in bikini wraps
eyes fluttering
with sunburnt bodies.
