“Do you want to get my heart or / get me hard? I thought this was art, / not a journal or a diary. Talk / about forced…”

“Shards of sun in the sand, fire in the hands / of earth, dirt burns a meteor’s / afterbirth, purges impure filth with piles / of worse, discourages…”

“I do it with my mouth, image / into existence from splinters / of my Self vivid pictures no / one else’s consciousness can so // well at once…”

“You who live in the conclusion of it, / attuned to bruising pale pages, / punching out pixel-toothed smiles, with dusky / images obscuring the world / with words…”

“Illusions of glamour fill / the windowsill’s winter pool / with troubles an angel’s hand / stills, a blurring of edges // occurring whenever it / falls, this fingerless glove…”