PREVAILS

Little humdrum bumblebee—flickering 
lowly and erratic 

through the stiff and non-particular 
knots of high grasses—how I wonder!

here beneath our shared canopy
of uncharacteristically chilly July air—do you 

also daydream? Are you so distracted-
ly busy? fizzing to recall—each and all

of last summer's most-popular blossoms?
where they were exactly—and how lovely!

it was to gently drink—and wick a little 
of their rarefied lives away from them?

Or are you merely out here humming
so diligently—to remind?

This too!—could be
true!

This too!—
might be right!

This too.
Can maybe

just—must 
be.

EARMARKS

There—in the raw and undesignated   
newness of morning,

just before—the ink dries
on the signatures of things

and the sting
of your self 

unleashes—
and thumbs its tremendous weight

evenly and hard
into the pulpy grey 

matter of your 
as-yet unproselytized mind—

when the light (even the light currently
motivating your eyes)

still feels—far off
and like it came from outside;

it is there—you must try. 
And try hard. As hard 

as you can—not to think
but rather

to wonder;
How? Just how many times?

in this moment—in this very
room? in this very

same space—prior to now?
have you felt

your soul 
quake like this? having leapt

up! in a split second; 
only to feel chaffed

and confounded
and constrained—by the weight 

of those names 
always coming so rapidly 

and heavily into formation?
And then—in that same space

of time—you must try 
to concentrate even harder.

To imagine 
even faster—the impossible idea

of tomorrow! Of
the next day. Of a very 

next morning. Another one.
A different

one! And yet—somehow, just
the same one.

And then?—And what then? 
What in hell

will you do then? 
And even 

more importantly—
what will you do now?

COUNTING ON IT

Recklessly,
I've been practicing naked—at making this 
pretty weird

mug the whole morning;

over and over—
for hours 
in my cold bath-

room mirror (I've been told
if I'm not 
careful—it just might!

stay that way)—Okay,
but which one?
I'm guessing,

at this point—
you're
probably asking? Only

the craziest! And
riskiest!—
And definitely most screwed-up

and difficult-
to-master 
kisser I can muster, mister—

My face. 
The first one.
The only one 

that couldn't have looked—
this bad.

QUIXOTIC

Soft through the curtained air 
her thin breaths—communicating
to him distinctly

the impractical romance—of late sleeping;

and then—upon finally beginning 
to stretch
and begin shedding

her gruff dreamy feeling of 
big armadillo skin
for more pliant—

and yet
still more 
unrealistic things—

day-old apparitions of seedy hard bread 
with holes up each of their middles,
for example,

and lugubrious brown 
streams of 
coffee pouring legato 
from giant steaming pitchers—he resolves

that to love her—here,
now,
with abandon

as wild 
and weird 
as her 

impulsive 
and 
impetuous nature—

would be far, far 
less risky
than to ever—dare endeavor not to.

CROSSFADE

Alright, fine—but it must be?
some

dazed, sunny after-
noon situated 
somewhere in between

Memorial
and Labor Day—opaque 
with condensation- 

thick
and ice 
cube grey-
colored billows of yardsmoke—

for it 
to feel 
even 

remotely okay!
the way 

that—Heart 
of Glass 

is bleeding—
weirdly

into My
Sherona!

UNDEAD AFTER BILLY CORGAN

Turns out,
you were pretty much
right—about 

everything—the world
really was!
just a vampire. 

That is—poor,
but rich-
ly dressed; 

old,
but still—
terrifying.

PUCKER

Littlest drooping 
scarlet daisy 
of the bunch—it gives me

such strange
heart—
to watch

your docile 
head hang;
thinking—

if only!
there wasn't 
so much

stiff competition 
out here—
more of us 

could resign—
to be 
winners.