supine and present inside the dream
behind each eyelid a dark seed sprouts
mustard leaves and pungent corpse flowers
half mashed I blossom into arms flung
up encircled as a nucleus
I breach and spill my encoded self
along a perimeter of girls
each crowned with twenty-three red feathers
and their eyes like televisions blare
no news but immediate pleasure
until I alight in a lecture
hall of pubescent design pillars
penile wild audience impatient
for the hanged man to dance above them
the stomach is the seat of the soul
they cry in one thick din upon my
eyes gone twitchy my toes splaying here
in the arena where I again
have retreated to the bodily
heat the deep engine we spend our days
smothering with sand scabbing over
slowly the oldest sand melts to glass
inside the twitchy earth we’ve ignored
the glass melts upward glares back the sky
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 
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