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.