Friday, November 13, 2009

poetry's worst nightmare presents:

the flesh of my forearm is a dead myth
a cold rhyme/an old rune/a new ruin;
its opened pores is poetry's worst nightmare...


run tell
olodumare to assemble his finest forensics
team/scrubbed into my every gray follicle:
a puss of jet blackedness, fairy tales
for a stolen people segregated from the sun.


on forearm's skin - sweat has a soapbox;
this recombinant phantasmagoria/a disassembled
midnight in miscegenation with the tongue

concerning these stories of skin,
what 'should' was

and my sweating tongue speaks volumes.

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