i am going to dig up saint augustine and eat what's left of him
Mrs. I'm-Not-Special-But-I-Don't-Deserve-This
This Is Beyond the Pale
in woad paste decorated, nibbling on postcards
standing above a ditch
the drool from the mouth eroding the dirt
grooving out a deep divet
over centuries
oh yes when he was a student james joyce
and we will call him james
and not stephen dedalus
couldn't trust his annotation stippled textbook
and he saw hell
for fifty pages!
such a latinate ego, what a notable quotable
can we name the thing? i mean the mid-calf deep in lake water, too hot in unshaven evening wear, hundred dollar silk dresses, under bruise purple dusk light sighing, a kissing only religion, the sense the sense the sense that there is a sort just a little bit of maybe just possibly some - i swear it's right here i promise i saw it beheld it held it hold it hold up slow up, but what are cloaked wizards and proud god smashers on tv when you close your eyes but don't intend to go to sleep?
a vestibule off the side of the face
hanging behind you
double
you say you believe in astrology or the tides
not so wrong i guess
we grow big inside of ourselves
we promise ourselves we'll go to heaven
we color in a punishing hand.
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