FLIP BOOK

Take the stubbed, slow man.

Glimpse him on the naked hill.

I found it lovely, the robber,

his sage face disproportionately
open like the many holes where
someone had blown up a house.

A HEAT CONSTANT

It was even in the paper--officials turn solid
at room temperature. As youngsters we gasp through

   the pain
of not knowing. In house after house the siblings die. The

mother eats candy while it snows outside. The floats that
appear are black crepe paper, the ones who slide under,

   window blinds
making a maze over the neighbor girl's face. Here are

some tips for burning alive. The wind crawls down the
telephone lines and into your bedroom full of sapphires.

WE HAD SIMPLY CROSSED OVER


It don't seem exactly humane . . . and so what is he doing now?
That was the story, eye patch, like swallowing the exhaust

   coming out
of a Kawasaki motorcycle. Like a generator misfiring in the

basement, the rain outside, five bored prisoners. I'd already burned
myself on the baffle. Meanwhile at the Saint Louis Zoo, What the

   hell were
they crying about? The children ran for shelter, a city sweltering

in the heat. My argument was Cutter and Bone. But this was
only my threshold, blind in one eye now--how many lifetimes have

   you begged
let God forgive you? My family tree and how it is intertwined

with the Falstaff Brewing Corporation. I was standing with friends
in front of an Aldabra tortoise. I'll pay for dinner. I felt like I was

   still swaying
in that fucking arch. Coal was buried in my eye, and it was talking

                                           Ducks taking a walk