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the halo factory
after andrei
codrescu
often I mistake
the opening in my soul for a knife
which is a curse for the insane. it usually follows
after every polite sentence and unbuttons the blood
on my hip. it was given to me by the barefooted
goddess of dice in the space of a kiss whose smile
tastes like whatever desires you most. there is no
escape. being amused will haunt you forever, as
am I, from having survived this wasted body, and
for having loved more than I could.
the infinite disorder of
prayers
under high
superstitious ceilings
sleep is a frightful rock
a dungeon of paradise
where I find my old self
waiting for me
the head floats by the ankles
I feel the bare room
trembling yellow in its labors
busted souls traveling
through the world at this hour
get recycled
and a little less desperate
like the difference between god
and bad information
I wish everything slender of flower
I wish gray light turning green
on dazzling snows
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