I believe that the soul

of anything is lost in

steam; vapors representing

the vespers.

& so any liquid (& what are

we but 90% water) cooling

is slowly dying,

& winter the least

notorious of serial killers.

The man was built of

screens, & each one

told a different story.

Today he stands upon

the throne of jackals,

all devouring one another,

& he is king who

throws down the lambs

for the beats to break.

Tomorrow he will turn

the last supper on its

head, & we will laugh

& watch his daring

escape.

When he dies, he will

be taken apart,

recycled, & rebuilt

into his son

(the one with the ear

horn from birth),

who will tell his

stories every night

like the evening news.

The Beard brothers

were not as vain as the

rest of us, & truly saw

into the natures of

humans, which were

the same as beasts,

so when we stuff them

into our mouths,

are we eating ourselves

or eating each other?

As you approach, the

cat’s red collar becomes

blood stained lips, &

all the warning you need.

Breathe in,

& fold into yourself,

your eyes being

pierced by your toes.

Breathe out,

& expand into your life,

your heart belonging

to anyone & everyone who takes it.

We all breathe.

I do my best writing while I’m walking.

The movement of my legs,

the drive to get my freezing ass

inside as soon as possible,

the lack of beauty in this frozen world

(but there is one there,

spectral,

haunting,

but the kind that would kill you if you

stopped and stared),

it all makes a kind of sleep inside my

skull that allows me to

solve problems,

create new ones,

and phrase the world

underneath my poet’s tongue.

I do my best writing when I’m uncomfortable.

Arms raised to god,

the one tree stands,

bathed in orange light…

It stands long dead,

its only life in haunting me,

snow ridden and dying myself…

We are one body.

There is no hunger in your

soul that cannot be

cured by my cuteness.

Your burning, beautiful soul,

its cuteness in its passion,

your anger when I misbehave.

You have a certain cuteness when you sleep,

& I watch your anger & sorrow fade into dreams,

& I am there with you through the night.

You never had enough anger to deny others,

to take your negative rights in the night,

always submitting to your other(s).

You touch yourself in the night,

submitting to the pleasures you missed in the day;

you have long since gotten used to my watching.

You submitted for welfare today

as I was watching from the table,

glad to see my hunger might now be cured.

I’ve always been watching: a cat, a friend,

someone to assuage your hunger for companionship,

you poor, broken soul

The sound of my own voice

is the best cure for an

angsty day, so that’s

why I’m calling.

Not to share something

with you, or to try

to sleep in your bed

tonight; no, just to

comfort myself in my

own larynx; and like

the shawl of a book

keeps you warm in

a new world, the rug of my dialect is

smooth on my body when

I lie on the floor, sleeping.

“You can’t not go through

Wisconsin,” Lyle informed

Winna.

“It’s just too… big!”

Winna seemed skeptical.

“But if you’re traveling,

say,

to another town in Arizona,

if you lived there -”

“Still gotta touch Wisconsin. It’s

too important to miss.”

& so was the patriotism of

Lyle, who was born &

raised in Monroe,

& loved his state to

death, & his country too,

but his country killed him

in return.

I guess they called his bluff.

He died twice.

Once was while serving in the

Middle East, as

shrapnel threw itself

into his brain like a

child into a hug.

Lyle died that day.

Lyle’s body died many years

later, when one day the nurse

who wheeled him about his

empty house suddenly notice

he seemed more slouched than

usual.

I like to think that in the

years between the two,

Lyle’s soul had taken a

quick vacation to

Wisconsin to get to

heaven.

As the souls of his family

called him on, he’d turn

up at them with mock

disgust & proclaim

“You can’t not go through Wisconsin!”