He said everything reacted to is an inner unexamined landscape.
The upward dirt of heat, toe to eye, pushed down truths, raw and damp.
Where do I go to find a source?
Cement porches of Nixon’s men,
the prenatal flow of college sex,
the bloated flask, anesthesia’s great water.
I am a real creator and to the holy list is added: I wasn’t sayin’ it…I was layin’ rottin’—
There is a line of wet seeds thrusting out of my mouth now.
This quaint story of an older woman held back until she shreds tan cardigans
giving birth to a bouquet of pungent barbs.
There is a certain sweet sourness to a found voice:
Disjointed edges, squinting heart, the lovely lunatic.
It can’t be stopped. I say things now. You’ll have to adjust.
It is a dangerous field full of deaf crickets.
