My throbbing head at the foot
of these gutted cyclone days. Lyrically
I don’t have time for this. Day
weaving into day choking into day
Shoving into day turning against writhing
howling. No. I wasn’t built for this.
This abomination of time carved ordered
numbered paid for. The scheduled
Perpetual discrete conquest of me. Who.
this. I am tired of asking for things.
Come. Please pour hot water over my
head. I am all muscle and bone. Fat
Can’t survive my molten synapse. Pour
the water and frown and let your eyes
Sink into your jaw. It’s as if you were washing
a dog. Me. Wagging. Bone. Muscle. Nerve.
Humming humming. My smokey sorrow songs.
this whole land has been murder and valley
And no trees except for the ones I’ve planted
in your aluminum skull. Yet I am here
Right-angled prostrate and sometimes oddly
vertical among your horizontal horizontals.
Whatever. I’ll take my Euclidean eucalyptus
elsewhere and bathe my own fucking self.