WORK

Wallace
Cleans Their Ears
Obsessively

And Joselito who wrote       bad,

class-conscious
poetry began to cough.

IN HOPES ONCE MORE OF COMING ACROSS THAT FISSURE WHERE THE SUN HAS penetrated YOU WITH ITS shadow AND FORGETFULNESS HAS insinuated ITSELF, infiltrated, WAKEFULNESS invading YOUR SLEEP, UNTIL YOUR MIND IS SUBMERGED; so you can sneak into this hole in your dazzled memory, first in search of a name whose sinuosities you’d marry . . . in order to become one in body with the calligraphy then finally grow drowsy in this word . . . and sleep—rest in peace—sleep     as far as     possible.

Yes, I am LACTOSE INTOLERANT.
        I Have No Patience for

                           LACTOSE.

And, I Won’t Stand for It.

EMPTY eyes

WILD DEPTH OF
CURIOSITY

a

hollowed-out husk of your former self 

CAN I HAVE A NEW WORLD?