I drove through ghosts and
all of middle Earth
to get here;
to lean into the sharp points
of middle hurts.
In true poet’s parlance,

I am nothing but
death rehearsed.
Death reversed.
I am nothing but
kamikaze and the
soot palms that steer it,
a blaze of worst thoughts,
typeface and colossal remorse.
I smile to show you
some white in this
hot, red place tonight.

I’ve got my best shoes on,
solid shoulders, strong
curved back and a heavy head
that is full of
it    a blue cracking
heart to match.
I say where?
and you say
mine.
Smile to show you
my canines.

I come over
wearing everything I
own: a pack that stalks
and stays together in lunge,
a freshly oil-stoned
suit of knives and
the bled-dry opaline
home that I nest in,
my cozy coronation robe:
my clanking vest that
announces my arrival to
your home.

all
my men’s
bones.

“the red book”

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