I lay down in the empty street and… My feet against the gutter’s curb… The building above a bunch of gawk… Along its ledges urged me don’t, d…

One day we notice that the sun needs feeding. Immediately a crash program begins: we fill ro… with wheat, smoke-rings, razorblad… after long aiming

at the edge of the city in the garbagedump where the trucks never stop unloading a crazy congregation stumbles from trashmound to trashheap

‘My age, my beast!’ - Osip Mandel… On the lips a taste of tolling we… The light drifts like dust over fa… We wear masks on our genitals You’ve heard of lighting cigarette…

I examine my skin searching for the pore with EXIT

After your death, Naomi, your hair will escape to be… a round animal, nameless.

Finally the day dawned when a mono… world So it went looking for its stockho… But they were all owned by it they… someplace

Time, time, time, time, the clock vaccinates us. and then even that lacks prophylaxis. Ticktock-pockmarked, stricken

We brush the other, invisible moon… Its caves come out and carry us in…

Note: Tomlinson is not only a distinctive poet, but a visual artist of repute. His graphics grace the covers of many of his books. This Homage attempts to imitate his verse style, or ...

At your light side trees shy A kneeling enters them

I don’t dare speak too loudly, some timbres could be fatal— that string is not too strong I think: and at times I have to breathe. Or maybe I fear

Bending over like this to get my h… Rummaging through the white trashc… Of the Patent Office I find a ki… Here in this warm-lit alley where… Even the rats too they know that n…

The taller the monument, the more… Look, look, a graveyard has fancy… Historians agree: this is the pebb… Every billboard is theoretically a… Mouth: the word’s exit-wound.

The bouquet Bluebeard gave his first date reblooms Railroad trains drop off the bourgeois’ pointy head God’s hand descends into a glove held steady by the police At their reunion The Ne...