I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,

Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at th
slope of my cheek. On the
occasion, you press

We, this people, on a small and lo
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way o
To a destination where all signs t
It is possible and imperative that

Give me your hand
Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

He bad
O he bad
He make a honky
poot. Make it honky’s
blue eyes squint

We die,
Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke
Stranglers to our outstretched nec
Stranglers, who neither care nor
care to know that

Tears
The crystal rags
Viscous tatters
Of a worn-through soul
Moans

I keep on drying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,

Pretty women wonder where my secre
I’m not cute or built to suit a fa
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,

We wear the mask that grins and li
It shades our cheeks and hides our
This debt we pay to human guile
With torn and bleeding hearts…
We smile and mouth the myriad subt