minor poet tells all


My hands believe in Spanish songs
And bullet holes in sanitary walls
I used to get my kicks in used bookstores
But I’m out to sea in Korea
Histrionics is after correspondence
Untidiness is infinite; tidiness is finite
Where is my mind among these unsorted metaclips?
My ambivalent tongue inserts into someone’s ambivalent mouth
I’m covered in shame and I’m not coming out anytime soon
Someone I used to know lived within margins but this is a lie
I don’t know much ABOUT margins but it’s a pretty song
A swan and the outline of a swan are both metaphors
Nothing explains gravity since gravity is an explanation for something else
God enters my steps as I move to the left but when I move to the right it’s hummingbirds all the way
I’ve got the flutters but do not mistake them for jitters
My window overlooks the Taihang Mountain Range
I’m hearing birds for the first time in three months.
Drunk on the crock and crow
Drunk on the distance behind this uneven temper
Standing naked kissing my hands I’ve got everything to lose
A sense of structure is found in every reckless twist
I ushered in betrayal and now my shame grows daily
My restorations are wrapped-up in books
A lost anthem IN my burdens
I am at the beginning of another jumping-off point
I don’t know when practice ends and the game begins
I’m at the margins of memory
The past is full of salt