Relics

By the sticky 

eighth 

of 

drab July—colossal 

primary-colored high-

way billboards 

hocking fire-

works 

megasales—spectacularly 

re-

capitulate the 

flashy 

sham of 

any spectacle.

Recounted Over Breakfast

How sticky legs of

utter 

jelly churning 

under-

neath the throbbing 

sun

spread 

precious undulating

waves of life- 

affirming butter all 

across the nauseous

running path—

Pigpen

So what if he's feeling 

a little 

revolting this morning—

so what—of those rough 

teeth, shaggy 

eyes, long 

cheeks—of his crumpled

neck, back, grace-

less shoulders slumped- 

up inside somebody 

else's old cardigan?

Is he not entitled?—are we all 

not just a little

bit sickening all of the time?

So what if he was just

up all night puking straight

coconut fat and black-

berry seeds?—here he is 

at work today pissing- 

time laughing—oh

can you not see 

the fecundity—rotting to life inside 

this breed of foulness?

Can you not agree?—some kinds

of disease

simply cure one's need

for medicine—

Independence Day

Suspicious interstate 

preponderance 

of white-

gleaming Crown 

Victorias gliding—

calm and lion-

striped through the midday

rush on glossy 

motionless wheels—

lazily constraining

the addled 

hot 

packs in their wakes

to a maddening,

middling 58.

E = MC^2

Let me be

fleet

as

light today—

put to such

good

and

incalculable use

that I'll never be

still—better

yet, never

caught.

PSYCHOANALYSIS IN REVERSE

It's 

precisely 

how

you try—

to pin things

down 

that really 

good and gums them up.

Imagine—hysteria 

without

the word 

you gave it; imagine—

nonprofessional 

trees;

imagine 

now—how 

a piano's

music 

might 

sound—

without all the 

keys you don't need.

Harlequin

The dry 

scrape of—old 

crows cawing 

off in the ash 

trees—

seems pretty

silly on an otherwise

lush July morning;

but then—so does 

the guy walking

by seeking diamonds,

skimming those woods,

pretty—

in a collar and shirtsleeves.