my Generation

delighted little fists emerge,

grasping at ripe fruit: the pulpated pupil.

they squeeze with eroticism

and the epilepsy fountains in fluid dance;

the streams gather to caress the earth

the rolled grass between these fingers

marries us. our sacred herb.

Inconsistencies

In the closed moments

The door hinges upon its grey skin

With a firm jaw and long fingernails

A flinching contest unseen where

The still life in the bedroom shrieks

And I lay shattered--

Naked in transparent arms shaking.

Deal

The moon’s hands under your pillow

Fingers your

with the King covering his wife

The dealer holds this night

But at the door there is a man

Who pockets all the money?

The bleeding sheets still embrace the bed

And we are caught with

But a hairpin

Is undoing her hair; but with

the crown still on,

The man still waiting,

And the rest undealt shake the winner's

post

Hard egged eyes

Cut and drip yellow

baby gifts

To feel opaque and burnt

Like me

Behind white counters

In-to cold titanium suits:

Crack, whore.

mental block

Eyes, lid up,

Open, floored on ceramic tiles

That climb up the walls,

A hosting site for

Tetris, the game for

Spiders’ legs holding the volume

Of a room

When counted,

Eight of four walls

Slammed together:

Eyelids down,

Closed, until the next--

Shift

stems

Stems.

But he won’t break her

She, On a string--

It’s tied tighter--remembering

Loose: the finger way up there

He, something like her name

It’s slurred and thick

Like, oh, syrup, holding down

The straining creatures caught in

Webbed fingers that touch—

Finger--

Her thin tooth-picky legs

That fold like little Bambi

In a forest

With tree roots and