Those who writhend blow
Above the bed
The nippled cherry-blossoms
Release red specks

That pause in a wind-current
Over the gray bed
The color of an office-worker’s shirt
Except for where blown pollen stains

Have been ground in
Have been ground in
Those who writhend blow
The nippled cherry-blossoms

Eric hangs around; he lies around
His life is simple
The color of an office-worker’s shirt
But close your eyes

Those who writhened blow
Above the bend
Release red specks that
Pulse behind the eyelids’ curtain

A mouth full of dirt
pressing through
a shower curtain
a transparent shower curtain

A mouth full of dirt
A soggy face
A soggy life
pressing through

A mouth full of dirt
A transparent shower curtain
A sexual maneuver
A sad transparency of dripping dirt

Soggy dirt
A climax full of soggy dirt
A heartbeat full of dirt
A mouth full of dirt

A transparent shower curtain
liquid dirt
sad dripping rags of dirt
flesh in the form of dirt

flowing in the drain’s
the drain’s direction
Eric was keeping something
perfect in his mouth

like a stone
like a stone in the shape of a word
like a stone in the shape of a word
“ROSE” or “LOVE”

“DIRT”
the stone word dirt
fell apart into soggy
fragments, membranes clogging

full and wet
can’t
drain out

Eric pushed himself up through some layers of snow, some layers of frozen sand, some layers of frozen soil. He put his hands on the sheet of the bed. The sheet was cold, and his hands were hot, so the sheet began to defrost as he touched it, and he found himself looking through it, as if it were a windshield of a moving car. The landscape approaching was so weak that Eric could not believe it could stop his sheet’s motion. And indeed, the sheet demolished the landscape as it sailed through it. The trees fell apart, just at the moment Eric thought that he would die smashed into them, die with his flesh jumbled into tree-flesh. The trees fell apart into matches the color of salmon in the earliest light. The sky felt apart into wet flakes of morning, each one thick like a sponge, like a loaf of air thickened by sunlight soaking into it. The weak light of earliest morning soaked into landscape but failed to make it real enough to stop Eric and his sheet. Eventually, he traveled through it all, the orchards, the clouds, the houses made of off-white paper, the air full of bridal soot. He arrived in a place with nothing but summer light and rising dust. The light went deep into him and he wasn’t frozen anymore. And the soot rose up around him and cut the light in half, in half again, in half again, in half and in half and in half until the only light left was coming from inside of Eric’s mouth, from the place in him that remembered the taste of light. And something fell out of Eric’s face, something that gave off light. It was a little blue bed, hand-sized. It was blue and white as if it had been squeezed from a tube of frosting to celebrate the birth of some tiny lucky angel who would curl up inside it and close his eyes, looking so unreal, serene and simplified, as though squeezed from a tube of frosting his sweet self.

Black little toads, black wiggly nematodes
slither in the open on the moon’s white face.
Eric hides in his pillow and hates them;
he has hidden his soul in a fluffy pillow,

he has hidden his pillow in the chalk-hard bosom of the moon,
in the dry chest of Moon spilling
white dust, like dandruff or powdered milk or
dehydrated racism in a snortable pure form:

you do a line and then visualize the white goddess,
with her deep dark wrinkles like caverns in her face;
caverns full of nematodes, slithering and spoiling
making the areas they’ve crawled through gray,

smudging all the ice-sheets with whispery motion,
leaving little grains of gray
like eggs that drill pores into the white and form sub-lunar
cysts and imperfections to be squeezed out

like the Thai beauty ladies
steam your face and then
individually extract each blackhead
leaving the face temporarily red, as if pain ashames

Starlight of the swirling night is hidden in the bed,
Light is a bright white gas like
super-heated milk
The yellow of advancing sunlight

and the blue of air
mix in the bed’s stomach full of night
and the bed has two arms,
one brief and day-tipped,

the other very long and lassoing blood.
Around the bed, carpets of
Smoke and milk, as if cigarettes
dropped curds and whey into a bowl of foggy grits,

a saucerful of opaque mist.
Starlight super-heated yellow air of blue
Night stomach, within
Milk smoke carpet mist

The spirit of joy and of love
cannot exist in day of today
its known and displayed firm
ly in heart can ll eat and
nourished

Magicians just want to get born
in spiritual robes stained
by fires arraigning through
aura bruised like a sunset simper
nourished

A black pineapple sits on a
man’s lap and quickly colored
flames rain out of sleeping man
The spirit of joy and of love
nourished

Pink thin vapor tickles try to
get back in to the pores they
snuck out of but the ducts of
the pores are plugged from in

Sleeping man magician is a
big mushy stain of ener
gy in heart can ll eat and
Eric is grin at ll his friend

cannot exist in day of today
pineapple black and withered
Magicians just want to get born
after they parchment up their

pores after they plug up their
pores after ll squeezed into
mushy squash that spoiled
into
nourished

The beauty of the three-holed mask
Some holes are deeper than others
If I were a betting man
Flecks of pink like discarded sprayhair

metabolize unworldly intensity
with the blasé fact that factories can and possibly should
produce pigments with a power that
lapses as the eye gets used to ANYTHING

but it’s all for the best,
because Eric and I and the tri-orifii
of the opened Trinity of raw pink mask
and our other assorted blasphemies, which we admire

we need, we require
ANYTHING
in self-defense, even if it has to be produced by anti-intellectual cash-boys;
they have different, but equally pressing, reasons

for wanting to kiss and poke
unlicensed idols
(Art)
they plan profits; we plan

a strict morality
of beauty
Love revolving
like a cash-poor nebula of pink pearl-stone