A baby rabbit will push his face

Between two walls, ears folded back.

A brown 9mm round fired into linoleum —

Though exposed, stubborn and steeled

Against all pronged voices

Or fat, pinching insults.


Not for comfort,

Not in the bookdog’s ears

(Folded and forgotten),

Nor in the sleeve peeking

Out of a coat cuff —

Asking to be tugged

To be trimmed with teeth.




The corners

The underarm nook,

The upturned mouth,

The eye and its pink slime,

I have always sought the corners

Of mouths, of rooms, of hot, hollow

Thoughts like rogue Mercuries,

Silver bodies, poison planet,

Distant messengers,

Round and boundless.


Though I have never

Seen the middle of you.

In a silver hollow-point hole

I bury my face and wait

For anything to happen.




My eyes fix upon monument for a giant

And in that state I covet —

Were I that tall. Were that body mine.

In my auspicious youth

I had hoped to master manhood

Only to masterfully refuse it.

As I hold myself to the highest standard,

That which only the √úbermensch could meet,

I am distraught at every petty failing,

My unterwäsche drop around my feet.

The Iron Horse


A ravine widens between the great iron horse

And I, fumbling for my camera

Cars curve around my desperation

They must understand

I sense the quietening sky

Purple nightshade dyes nimbus clouds

Stuck by a poison arrow

My vision dims with the day

Impulse commands

The great statue all but disappears

I caught it too late