What do a double shot glass, a piece of driftwood, a bottle, the stem of a martini glass have in common:

What do a double shot glass, a piece of driftwood, a bottle, the stem

of a martini glass have in common:

the monster left his footprint stamps in the mud

inside me, but if you could somehow

crawl in with the other objects, please, then repeteadly

bash your head on the soft rocks inside me,

that'd be great thanks

of course you may get dizzy of course

you may need more air, but let's pretend

that you aren't/dont need

and somehow the Stegossauraus ache inside me

is alleviated with no aftershock

Self Portrait 2

Her suspicion was all you could dream

Remove items from mind and sink in

to hammock     it is sad/breathes you in

and out of itself like it is alive

in that hurtplace, drink from the

cold glass bottle your heart

is a great engine

pulling you into

Lovely

taunting 

dreams of her,

                                      sink in

to that time her beloved strings went missing

you dont play/you loved her/you didn't have keys

but all she could do was fear you,

but still, she was all you could dream for yourself

Self Portrait

• did you know I mowed a heart in the grass for you
  incase you flew over in a plane you'd see it
  incase you happened to be looking real close from up high

  loafe with me/rhyme with me I want you
  

  • to lull, transparent hips and gentle
    part swiftly arose part swiftly a rose
    around me

  
  
  

•  

Through all the cricket sounds

I loafe in summer grass rooms-- shelves intoxicate me

it is my mouth in love with wood here and naked, nipples whisper silk

silk are loosed to kisses: a reaching of trees-- hills, of me rising

the earth of all poems, millions

of eyes shall look at the beginning

and end of this act--

in the jars on the shelves are bulbs and frog hearts

beating,  my tongue is a worm and thristy
for the dark room where it senses
its way

Recall

Last night a woman in my mouth refused me, refused the journey my tongue offered. This was the end of night. This bleeding is the beginning of day, perhaps what brought me to my knees-- little things in the stacks get me. The coward placed 2 circles beneath my tongue-- easier than a hive to dissolve, and my tongue welded them together like it must always be a maker, 2 sweet tarts filled with numbing powder and soft, but soft, went the night so I couldnt feel the ache-- blue ache, then green fading yellow and lighter, lighter till it disappeared. Be the day circles, triangles, deceiptful Softs or an unyielding lover, it begins with my tongue's memory. One never remembers the medium nights. Who wants them, I lie raised on deck, a blue heron in the pond, feet covered in patties of duck weed, a pot of turtles and snakes stew beneath ,  fearless or ignorant is the baby heron? I am sitting on a hive, recalling my fifth step brought me to my hands, write hand impaled by the needle it fell on, recall a stream of blood means relentment.