Ouroboros

Every name I pull out of my hair is a soft / blow to the spine, decibels for Newtons.  

Untitled, despite my want

The rain / tries to remind me that all a cloud is, is collection—and perhaps / I am.

SUBSTANCE

there is a two-inch gap behind my books, / a mouth stuffed with shiny aluminum / packaging

The tree outside the barbershop

was struck down
sometime last
night, its Siamese
boughs
wrenched from
each other

Abecedarian For

Convalescence

Angels speak from my open wound where the light leaks out and the
blossoms in my mouth
cut my tongue the way needles bled my skin for art... 

when I see all I've never been

stern man in white coat tells me I have been coddling my young / that my porcelain children have turned rotten and sickly under my care...