A Hole in My Name

She’s there, a wall upstairs you tap
with the tips of your teeth.
I am a bedroom looking in, souvenir-for-hire
with chords of faces that change the tones
of wind into time:
Events happen out of order,
your child raises you,
the earth breathes lungs into humans from dust.
Let there be demon or voice,
I am a mosquito
that lands on my leg rebuffing
the medicine against it,
filling my blood sac with venom to die or survive
the hospital by, including plots of friendly people.
This licorice from my knapsack tears
the spool of guts from my spleen, gives me cushion
to lay my head on. 
The earthworm knows my pores,
parts spirit from half
of my body I wriggle when cut in two
then three then up to so many holes
I forget which name to go by. 
The vowels are missing now. I begin anew.

Bows at the End of Death

In eveningtide, we demand the lying down. 
We carry into a picture-house directly ingrained
our statements depicting fairies,
replicas of figurines as ballet dancers,
little darlings who stand very still, bows at the end of death.

We call the truth of newspapers a fainting windshield
driven by hoary night, in another part of town.
I am passing away from being loved
to anyone you think is interested in balding happiness.

Among the laurels that inform the ways we lie,
we focus a lens to retreat
to Hot Springs privately on the Appalachian trail.
There, the natural and human turn atmospheric. 
Dreamwork scenes perform
the weekend with no experience necessary, &
Of experimentation, we wait to hear mountains moving inside us.

We move mountains too.
I will light this monster flame,
I will one more time compete with human beings,
Make the music beneath the bushes burrow under the stars,
Notches of night’s victories with a cabernet
In summer’s yard, flinch when winter mentions herself.

I will doubt the mad escapes, even as
I drink to rock ‘n roll hysterics.

Slither-by-slither, we starve onward for Damascus,
promoting national trust as we sign away the people
not noted on our payroll.
We owe them less than even less, and of ourselves,
We keep afresh for our close-ups to hear the graying
bells start a dance, and the knots untying themselves.