You bed down in a sty,
squeeze out your mind
like a rag, catch water
(usually greasy) in tins,
mix them up (murkiness
is not undesired), add an
edge of cyanide (or gin),
yet you know all the time
none of this will do much
good, or anything at all,
most of it is destined as
bricks in no wall, thus
does the blood spill, but
when you heal, how you
grab the sun & moon places
you where chemicals beg
your brain for admittance—
The first book in my oeuvre to directly address Plymouth-Whitemarsh: autumn 2019's The Great Recession. As of late 2024, another salvo sent directly from Ply-Mar begins its journey; the Beams sequel Dance Monkey, from Funtime Press. Will I get to a trilogy? Who knows.
This lowly wise slug, stuck
to woody surfaces, rocky
bottoms, is yours: vacuum-
space, death to suck. But
lucky dips come in with such
brave vehemence (yellow
light, stop, before red) that
as we park near the woods
I hear an axe chop off your
reticence. This, however dense,
is how a man begets expanse—
what’s Eve, what’s ribbed, what’s chance—
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