in the phase of shards

I kept thinking of the pictures.

uncle with his motorcycle.

only with the ascendance

of the stage of the nascent circle,

did I realize they were a key.


the door my uncle the key

became: urge to convey

how space impacts

our being as we move through.

most piercing

way to realize

is feeling of being

in a space not clearly demarcated

or very clearly demarcated on which you trespass.

in either case you’ve taken yourself in your own hands.


the hall is long and dirty green,


with electricity, a space that rings:

all that is possible to do

and what all people have done,



the hall’s walls unfinished,

rough framed two-by-fours.

empty warehouse rooms beyond

Oops, not empty

theres a cot and a kettle.

formerly casual silence deepens.

sound becomes a litmus.

you grow fur and fall down on all fours, sniffing.

suddenly all those funny little doors and hatches

passed on the way into the belly of this building

become hints

of father, darker doors,

like glass,

space reflects

a blurry self

who will not mimic.


an old drunk who fucked up

sitting quiet at the picnic

of sidelong glances.

noone knows anymore

when exactly

he was born.

he doesn’t even know.

he’s just trying to eat his hotdog.

sometime in his teens,

he took his first swig of jim beam.

better than home, an earthquake.

night of flying motorcycles,

all the coolest vampires say

the sky is the straightest high way.

pictures behind pictures behind

A wet road

Vignette of Wyoming

Vignette of

A son a daughter who don't know each other

Standing back to back in the flats

The dust devils stir and flick their straps

The shakes mistake

Disconnected phone for a little peace

And quiet white

Sheet falling down drunk

Out of the chair

Remember better

cool calm drink of a long day picking grapes


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