/the unknown error 800 failure failure you do not have permission to access the
unknown/
error that has failed Juliet her last grace suicide her hypothetical
manifesto
false paradox the international redeye
to the buttresses
the ballasts
the battering ram of the noggin
oh, gallant Arthur oh, delicious pulled pork upstairs is a torch
among pitchfork-shaped torches
we will have a mob
where opens the foliage of Christ, reformed Stephen in the brothel
his little light of mine a chandelier for swinging
into coriolis effect what alters the collective axis of our gravity
our false starts
our profuse apologies
as if we are all Mary Cassatt
stuck painting
daubs of meadow greens and bathers exclusively
--------
/the contributive parts the dull ache the constitution of the whole/
in about 1.1 miles, turn right on East Spruce Street, climb
the twenty-three steps up the patio deck, there
an upstairs resting on a pretension of vanity
a vintage shaving kit
a double-sided mirror with a stunning view
of one’s blackheads at festival
one’s egghead claptrap
the form of the mouth’s witless palaver
in your mob-ecstasy
blight out these old characters gnashing their teeth
these directions for planning a work in progress
the means by which Stephen will pencil-sharpen the confounded, as-yet-untitled art
of failed attempts into the almost showing of a note
so easily
smudged beyond legibility
--------
/maybe there is something to that quite an observation you don’t say/
wife made salt lick, Lot’s improved eventually
first the heart-squelching moment, abject dismay
the closing of the throat as if to prevent any
possibility of more loss
even carbon dioxide
even what has turned toxic in the body
then pilfering a stray wheelbarrow left in the road
carting her off, every last pinch
to Zoara
in the new refuge
he cradled her crusty form
Moe otaku his anthropomorphic pillow
by morning
her granules a film embedded in his cheek
his belly
his deep groin creases
long after he has perspired away her layers
sucked on her curves, tasted her to nubbins
he must face down her pedastaled shape
dream after dream her prodigal recomposition
smacking him flat on his back
oh, could it be how is it you at last at last
the body-shock that made his dream-self fall again
and again before her image
in small increments he could look down
see his feet flowering in the flood of uncontrollable weeping
at times he could see them bob heads with buoyancy
little chins stuck out above the water line
it was becoming plausible
they might, at some point
bolster enough flit and flight
to cede residency of the floor
