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Or: Domestic Tableau Squirm.  Seven mutant summer guests from the ridged crystal domes of a milky nano-dom. Somewhere back on dearth the house is chaos when you come back as if for you to name it. I lost my MILF too. The one that bled sugar-thick pearls when provoked but don’t pick at your scab! I spent the first decade not thinking about fetuses really then topped the basket with a pot lid so the cats wouldn’t intervene. The cosmic prairie affirms this desire for a green gothic–because it is a uterus when you hold it upside down–mysterious, prophetic, howling bike people want in too–don’t forget bullheads–I remember the pixelverse of simulated destiny and MS-DOS death by cholera–wheretofore I see you more little larva–rife with the overwrought and divine feminine distress, like a Heathcliff. I do not overstate but I want to overstand. Then dive into all earthly textures. A body plunged in flux, secreting it. The last–a kind of reserved psychic space found on the sidewalk and shriveled–mobbed by ants–I later saw LIQUEFY–spinning in gyrations from the cremaster–(read attachment)–ostensibly MELTING in spiral into that green mutation (read) with the golden necklace–the liberation of nothing coming back–a spectacle that made very clear the poem IS the body.

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It’s Pluto in the garden again blue
as the village snow

It’s Pluto at sea and in this lament

Regiments without pause and
Regiments without reason
even without macho choir

The soul of my sabotage is a professor
of sacrifice, night lettered across the sky

dribbling theses from mother’s breasts
The absurd angels and so-so goats pass

lilacs, tulips, the television sisters
swooning in gowns of spangle and folly

their pussies plumed and upper crass
Tinsel of taxed attachments

Silt in the sewer between them

[Scrying Joyce Mansour's “Il pleut dans le coquillage bleu” / “It’s raining in the blue shell”]

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Abbatoir is a grammar. It was not tho only That next to the school in the field as much as it was What– a proverbial meat processing plant. An enormous Venus fly trap in perpetual rumination? No, much more terrifyingly beige and systematic–all about product. The facilities–no one really knows what they looked like–sat at the end of a long straight road the trucks hauling the trailers– with the slits you could see sunlight and snouts and eyes through–turned onto. A dead end. The plant’s mascot was a cartoon pig in a sagging white toque, smoking a cigarette and toasting you, dear potential devourer, with a flaming shot glass and a wink. “Home of the Smiling Worker” the slogan. The Children in All Towns converging on the school were for having some errant Ways and turn agains tho nonetheless hydrated Each. That if an Enemy comes into them, he may be at a Loss, and be in Confusion and Suspense or what they called in Code the Changing, which was theirs, the Children’s Confusion, divine and discomfiting. The air drifting in from the silent field into the humidity called Cafeteria smelled of old blood, and, in a Way they sought not to know, many of the Children became prone to floating. A Hover heavenward. Into fluorescence. Erstwhile, stray Cloven, having wandered schoolward dazed from the end, found their way beneath them. In this the Exchanging the elders feigned aloof for what do you do with bewildered Joy, else if they push on daringly.

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Cul de sac is of the body–the cretic first used in anatomy to denote a “diverticulum ending blindly” (1793). In it I hear a school for strays on binding, a diversion bending blithely. Maybe everything collects in the sack. All flocks, all sensations.  A sack to contain all sacks. The layoffs and lost socks the groceries the confidence man of prime time ad hominem the accumulating gravel collected like relics of excellence by potholes and knees and cheeks pressed into the dirt of it the big wheel screams the plastic Santas lit from within and below the cul de sac’s mischief night trees festooned in toilet paper–the realm of unintentional pun. Because cul comes culus “bottom, backside, fundament.” Rounded and mooning. A too late apotropaic. An ass offensive. Fundamentally, I said the cul de sac’s trees and not the Miller’s trees or the Porco’s trees or Jehovah’s Witnesses’ trees because in language is the deed. And the dead. Who’s culling? This tender pouch this lost end not surprisingly often in the possessive. For example, the so-called Pouch of Douglas*, otherwise known as the rectovaginal pouch aka the Douglas cavity, the Douglas space, the Douglas cul-de-sac. Like a chamber pot or cracked and empty pool-cum-endgame the cul de sac culls as much as it collects. And they are siblings–Cull and Collect–gathered here together. To join and exclude. To pick flowers and fruits. To identify the animals to be sent away, the brunts of a brute claim.

*Q: Who’s Douglas and where did he come from? Unsatisfactory A: An anatomist who came from his mother’s body in the year 1675.

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for Shardav



                                   included The early moods eggs over easy rye

                                      toast With butter milk

                                          grAss grits sweet tea scrapple I’m sorry

a list sea urchin haggis what else cutlets oF various persuasions including those

       who cant commit olives thick blocks oF farmers cheese

                                          caLalloo and

                                 dumplings fEta

                                        cheeSe sugar

                               cubes coffee No


 willow pollen honey comb a reason to sing aVocado avocado avocado cortado

                               trickling watEr

                                           fRom the colorado turtle on a rock toad in a

                                 things milkWeed

                                         creamery cArrion termites bones ants cold

                        pizza and diet coke Fresh

                               baguettes in France or tang

                                        and Lucky

                                       strikEs with bloody mary hallelujah

                                and recompenSe hair of the dog and baby zebras but horses is for hay

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The trees sketch their profiles
of suspects–which takes some time
obviously but they don’t care—an unlikely
albeit asymmetrical consensus–not caring
which is why the night
is so bitter and the bitter
its shimmering mulch

And my prayers are just as good
as my neighbor’s and my neighbor’s as
the night guard’s at the stray thoughts museum
the night guard’s as the operatic email’s prayer
the email’s as the infernal order of relentlessness
the infernaltarians’ as the googlable cognitarians’
all of the googleables’ prayers as the eternal heretics’
the heretical as the baubles’ among the ruins
the baubly prayers as the babbling oracular mellifluous brooks
as history as the long winded much dissed hissing radiator’s prayer
the radiator as the glyphs of the roiling of the overwrought tree’s prayers
as if overwrought is a bad thing or good in contrast to how she spooned jammy blood
from her open wound into the cup of the narcissist’s tea without saying a word
then stirred which of course I can only relay from the narcissist’s telling
my prayers just as good as the narcissist’s and it’s true I’m the narcissist the wound
the tea and so brightly the host and the spider above the door and the pig-rider in the yard
in a different story about grief and fallowness and how to blossom like an idea in hell
by which was meant netherworld
or down below

(first line of each stanza chanced from Joyce Mansour)

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Send me chips and an unabridged list of your nicknames

terms of endearment and scorn and worship and ridicule

and chance–decompositon and chance and accordions and chance

riding away on a glittery tram with an ad for the water you want. Meanwhile, you must

remain as in ruminate as in Rumi’s

years without Shams

Maybe I just typed Shames and maybe in their origin story Shams

approaches Rumi in a library a Rumi surrounded by piles of books

glowing and gilded and bent in half like hats or open bare and butterflied and Shams

gestures to this spectacle and is like what’s this and Rumi is immediately all

o you wouldn’t know but before he finishes Shams sets the books and library on fire

then it’s Rumi’s turn for what’s this [except incredulous] and Shams for o you wouldn’t know.

Meaning sun in Arabic Shams was a Ra was heliomantic

or the most subversive thing you could do is go by your own sun dial

unacknowledged yet more true like their romance yes platonic but what did plato know about love in

the warmth of love, hello choose hello


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The Ancients in All Towns were for having some intricate Ways and turn again Streets, without any Passage through them, that if an Enemy comes into them, he may be at a Loss, and be in Confusion and Suspense; or if he pushes on daringly, may be easily destroyed. -Leon Battista Alberti (1404-1472)

I grew up in a cul-de-sac, which is French for “I was born. I fucked myself. I die.” The bottom of a bag, the land of seems and no exit, the loop of infinite defensiveness. The survival of those who precede me despite their conditions includes a more ancient love of the woods and her effervescent laugh, jug rosé over ice, Salem* cherries glowing in the family room at night, his flint of quick wit, just as much as it includes my martyr’s sighs and submission to a marriage–both formulaic and grossly tipped–to a man who picked, as his mother observed, the softest place to fall, which is, yes, the rounded bottom of sack, or anatomically, a blind pouch or cavity, like a hole. The prick and pressure of employment, and the threat of strike, always an ambient threat–how to sustain and how to maintain the household, under the scrutiny of  judgments hemming in. Find a seamstress not your mom to undo the knot? A noose? A mistress? A day job? A new womb? New wound? Put a middle school next to the abattoir. Replace hearts with cars. The regulating forces–despite any stray, animal hearts–so pre-inscribed that even an alien import to teendom would find a first kiss beneath a full moon in a parked car at the end of a dead-end street apocryphal. 

With a question: Who will slaughter me?

*R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company (1956–2015);  Imperial Tobacco (2015–)

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Anything can happen
That’s the score–gored
into the torso of the tyrant
or assailant as you will or
me–a tantrum in a puffer coat
a tantrum in the parking lot
of the local A & D
the lost year of what gods
unseen in the obscene
labor of status quo tableau
O art and despair–air and dearest
year of what goods again?
Dirty dress of a live burial or institution?
Institution or Immolation?
The burning estate or homunculus?
Bratty vs. rattail
Teleovision vs. cat TV
Cats vs. cyclops
Cyclops vs fly vision
Emily D vs. Rowdy Roddy Piper
Delusion or choice
Mutual annihilation?
How do you play? Asking
for an austerity complex.
Dear committee, I am currently
getting off on my current levels
of exploitation and would like
to rescind my application.
Find the letter star. Splay
across the page
little spleen of ennui like a sleepless
buck that continues to rut–that
is history fka the wet accumulation of knives
in the hay. Heavy lidded re-enactments
by blade light or shiny teeth
among the ferns and mossy chandeliers?
The point that was not a point at all
was surfaces are full of friends
the invisible livingness
always talking back
the line between heaven
and the underworld not mine
to patrol