Hooked, I dream of spirited litter
and scowl at the sky like cracked stucco.
I work the stream of automatic desire
into a shadow of itself, into a riverbed
Dryly, even as a I work a pair
of dice into my green, anarchic panties,
Meum et tuum. My shoulder blades
bend of the arching back and buttress
The michtam of these handmedown days.
I am limping through the experience of a nighttime
With saucepan eyes, until the lilies inside me
outrageously sing—without barracks,
without timber, and with the feeling that now,
now I can amble on the Walls of Jericho
and that this is that instant when the sparrows
surround the pious landslide . . .
I drink my syrup and honey down and devour
the anatomical stars. I delight in
my personal spirals. I’m more than an ancillary
Socrates. Move over you Jobs
and Marcia Bradys! I wonder-
fuck your fragile, humanitarian aura.
I take a man and make him a giant
shell—I crawl inside and hide
the wild, intestinal surfaces of the world.
