Cup of Salt

the panders singing of my glasses
cuts my hand like being two
the passage run between the sisters
Oh, I just don’t know for sure
And wasted like a Jung out lady
I whistle only drums cast in steel brown eyed symphony brown eyed symphony

The hand that bears the cast carries on
grit is weighing down its tendons
Just the muscle and a chown upon degree
Just the neighbor being beat on again
Browning the loin on a grinder chain
dance, dance my orphan monkey
piercing subjects with our television
the brim is wider than a pair of strangers

HOLD ON TO THE WET ARM
LIKE IT AGAIN FOR SABIAN
purse whatever comes may disagree whatever comes may disagree whatever
and the water glass is like her figure
let me squeeze enough to unpolish the marble
Let me bend enough to challenge the structure
And return it to sand with my harmonic intentions

---

The Hellwalk

make the widow in my room come with out crying on the sheets
make the weather by my window cool thirty seven degrees
make the vessels in the continuation of incessant existing mammals
        boil over and dry like dinosaur creations
make my wig strong and florescent a gas that’s on fire
make a gas that’s on fire lose the war against the imaginary father
make a prayer pound down the pious
make a water that stands still when threatened
        simple drown ecclesiastic bird joining me on a hellwalk
breathing stationary and bling jones on a hellwalk
make a run over carrion smell as fresh as a lovers stroll
make a rosary sentimental and warm as her mouth
make a hat coat figure passing over each opportunity conquer the old
        docks living
        excess breath is mounted on a hellwalk
        garrisons and grocery stores by the hellwalk
        promises by number constructions as yer people on a hellwalk
make a salt that tastes like rainwater on a broken breast still earn
make a rapist learn to hang things straight
make a technician have his second taste of wealth this time stronger
make the painted scrap redefine the reflection of the water

---

Joshua Saves

Joshua passing the theater in his suit
and ostrich boots he could kick
all the bunnies off their heads without placing a protest
Joshua parading round his keyhole in scarves
made by his mother and dyed in a coin dryer
thumbs his nose at the dry seasons
Joshua made of glass parts his hair
and smells like butter and love
passed between unlined lips and shimmering dresses
Joshua made of stone runs down the cars
and makes the drivers carry them
under the arc de triomphe
Joshua pulls down the threads and lets
out the pounding bodies of her
        (I’m thinking of a friend
        here but I’m not sure)
each corner of her adorned with warm flesh
Joshua pulling down the curtains and quitting construction
before the facade had been compiled
and decompressed and transcoded
Joshua make the world small
So I can find her with eyes closed
And be her love letter
and let her hands glide down my crotch
and that moment might last
in your very small world
pulling down the theater and kicking out the brutes
Joshua passes over the bridge and realizes how long it was

---

After the Midnight Movie or Plasma Dove

thirsty while
I stand by a brush
out abound
overdressed and instrumental

on the lawn
between a seagull
and it’s ancestor
pressed down buttons
and breathed out of time

a secret rhythm
cleaned with steel wool
Until the siding was gone

walking over the unmade bed
and seeing the water
from an unlit view
I can hear hoofbeats
in the brick buildings
and I left my little island
to get back to my little island
but there’s so much ice
in a warm time like this
that face doesn’t surprise me
and the child in the alley
that face doesn’t surprise me
give me a few minutes before he hits
and I give him my shopping bag
after the baseball bat comes down
but I hope he doesn’t get caught
because he has shown me mercy

a dove is breaking its wings
now it has more joints
and can hunt again
between the gas and liquid
hail the plasma dove alone
it should make good masks
it should be worn by Incas
outside of its vision

it should not come back

---

An Honest Victory Again

on the fourteen with laced eyes
he will be my little dancer
placed a number on her fourhead
he will be my little angel

hunter running along the highway
he will be my earnest borgnine
places shells next to parked windows
he will be my rubber uncle

and the fourteen is struggling again
she will sing like bats for hours
and her hair is like straw
she will sing like bells in towers

the cream and alcohol
the oil on my vision
saturday again is coming
the little man inside the bank

off the fourteen he turns his stereo
he will be my forest creature
it’s the radioshak hi-fi
he will fill his paper cup up

and she is sitting in her square
when the hunger shoots her jaw
she will sing like ballerina
she will hang my little angel
who has a guilt he cannot cash
and a mortgage with no station
she will be his little rapist