don’t know that my ribs are a cemetery, that

sea shells rest here and sound like death when you listen.

i tried to tell you that the ocean comes to die here

that there’s no infinity no we’re so deep the pressure

could fold our bodies – look



you can see its heart through its skin 

isn’t that something?



there’s the sound of your cigarette burning, a faint

crumpling of paper at a grave and you’re saying 

i loved you once – and i thought there’s some beauty

in that before the tide came in and turned my bones

to sewing pins – some beauty. 






used your oars as a shovel without realizing that

was shameful. that, “digging up the dead” is not thinking

we’re destined to sink here, tangled. I tried to

speak through soil to tell you yes that touch

is electric – your hands belong to living and



oh – there’s the sound of an anchor scraping.

there’s some beauty in that –  some beauty.

This old apartment has beetles in the mirror
could be me
shedding wings in the laps of firepoles
or men, their mouths open like coal-chutes

Look at anything too long and
knuckles are metal and gong-beat-backed
concrete slabs that move
like an old rocker children split their eyes on,

Moon-bird in the window
pours salt on my bedsheets and
skin shrivels the
old tiles applaud, clasp hands
with half-peeled walls and 

there are shells in there, all pieced
like the corners of a collarbone,
a young boy from Cincinatti trades
organs for wood and arsenic 
the currency of row boats.

I can see the floor move while sleeping
and feel my chest a Harlem window
conducting the electricity of the body
cleansed in rain and steam

Sane boy tried to make this place beautiful
and ended up feeding flies.

Walk like Tiffany

            people wearing

shuffle in guttered gutted birds

We heard morning



                                    Tell me

                                        come back to bed

red blanket


rib-stained musket.

Mud slow moving

                   gallop feet in


to hair-slicked

quick-fingered widow.

crowded room


more    drumming

run memento mori


Insomnia said forty five


             spit on virus

sit on wired cables

we clean until midnight

close at moon


                    collars on doorhooks

hanging men

tried our best

           his chest his need

mouse feet petit allegro

our tongue in

      his eyes

           ozones benzos


                           quicker release


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