death & a sweet

balancing youth
against youth as the thing heats
grinding his flint
sinew tall & incisor lean

lapping now, she's a burner
death & a sweet
oxidizing dream
cream ballistic, stop and frisk

a billystick he bandies with a fecund brick
passing from hand to hand
darkening venus's thong — drinking whatever slips
from her lips.

Even if a husband lives 200 hundred fucking years, he'll never discover his wife's true nature. I may be able to understand the secrets of the universe, but... I'll never understand the truth about you. Never.

the wire; s1e1 — test

Check the files
perfect round & red
to pink to neon-blue
irrelevant but real
you can't bring back the dead
none can force you to court.

Friday night in the alley
too much information, photographed
and cataloged in America. Black
fingerprints pressed
significantly into bulletproof glass.

untitled 05092012

the appearance of constant movement (merely)
that spotted spider crawling in the cleavage between the floorboards
tires peel along wet road — an imperfect chill — fleshing dimensions
the body, young and unaffected by liquor, fucks better
in tight-roped moments before the roof is ripped into orbit.

Breathless and Sweaty Here on the Sidelines

Adam, is this a printing error?

Had McSweeney's beard-wild intern 

left notes in the galley?

A literary rabbit?

A muzzle flash? 

A clue; smoky fingerprints — whose? — left marginal?

An entropy?

Oh, I see!
This affect-italicized ho-hum — pop, pop, pop 

Playing volleyball with her quote.