Round Coyote paws
in the snow, meandering
away from Rabbit
What if they were there
in chorus, stepping toget-
her, chasing, falling
But that is an If.
here, Rabbit will never meet
hungry Coyote
Winter Paws
No Jackknife
take a straw in your hand
and shove it in my eye
twist it around, around
perhaps counterclockwise
or without direction
carving a hole into
my eye, my sloppy eye
no jackknife, just a straw
how creative you are
your plastic urethra
digging itself into
my iris, my center
The Wallpaper
She cloaked herself behind the wallpaper
creeping around the room
and fattening my psychosis
like a sponge under a faucet
expanding and absorbing
rational thought
and mushing it into a porridge
of obsession
and the sense of a thousand faces
peering at your female body,
contorting themselves
into a collage of mockery
Vermin
I want a blanket
over my head
yet my eyes must be
squeezing themselves
out of their sockets
to peer beyond
the thickets and at
those faces, those things
that denigrate me
and thus shove me towards
a freak hell that I
mustn’t tear through
I just wish a hand
could cloak me so
or perhaps a quilt
then those vermin
faces would depart
Crickets
The cricket’s hum meanders,
omnipresent in the dimness of night,
a chorus birthed from roughness
and a guild of things without vertebrae
a sound that dances, constant,
wavering only under morning sun
~
Coiled up in a black stew,
the insect churning stands amid a mute
concoction of the kind of
muddyness that emerges after dusk,
hovering over cities
and brushing past streets until its repose