On my way to the interview grasshoppers
draw shuttered orbs around my feet. The circle

contracts. The circle lists. I am surveying
American decay (along Staples Mill, just before

Broad(it was a plantation once, everything
burned), a slick onyx garbage bag bulky enough

to hide a body);I'm raining all over myself, encased
in the menses of ninety-plus degrees, walking;

shirt-soaked. Sky white squats over me. Spyware
awe-stuck ipecac epidermal third-worlds rows of fog

is not neccessarily steam: meats on display
away from the monitor ignoble, bone-knowing it

takes two weeks to get an answer, praying for more
predation to dervish red dreams out of loom-butter,
out

into ought to call more often from the coats
of sweat painting clear lacquer pain. To grin: here

(I prick your mouth up at the corners tucked), let me
help you with that. It's so heavy, we say, then

tattoo our power cables across streets deadened with
blanched nerves (aloof from pain). I would know

the nature of it: I want to fuck your dead parts.

=====

http://www.lewislacook.com/




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