The Soul selects her own society,
then Shuts the door.
e. dickinson

Saturday, September 1, 2007


An olive green coat
cuts open
just below
the heart; a being
is justified to the middle,
we begin this way
at the center
of a page & come out
to fulfill whatever
spaces are left


K cuts out
the blue
from the sky &
sews it into the
shape of a woman; pale
because tones are
sometimes geographic,
pearl buttons; the
kidney stone, she.
Drinks cranberry vodka
to deal with nature
as it becomes flat
as a screen.


The left knee; ⠀
her strut full of forward
slashes, everywhere
handicap in the
back pew of my mind / /,
the ground covered in
discarded beads K will
invent the proper climate
to pray them in.


The nylon scratches
at K's frontal lobe; she
struts with one foot
forward, cutting out
an image of herself
before reaching
the pixels it takes
to stand in place.


He wants it cut
at the rib cage; the
skin as thin paragraphs
of soft aging; hands
passing through yards
of _________
now exposed for
an audience to read
through a word
clothed in leather; K
watches from the monitor
searching for shadows
left on the ground, not
even she can see
how death is accumulative,
"seconds are softer
than clouds", closes
his eyes and
presses his cheek
against the womb
on her screen.


K is 'meticulous' about
chance; low notes
drop throughout his ear
to which outside of it
is just rain to them; a
hallway of mute profiles
stepping inside him, the
back alley
keys black & white
are not enough so he
replaces every other
major note navy blue.