My Only Friend
I call it “Puttyface.”
It’s a hominid-shaped protein
Pushing mass up a gradient.
My friend Puttyface was strange around sleep.
The water-glass-bell alarm clock—
All-but-intolerable shrieking.
Does this imply it looked forward to bed?
Baroque masturbations, two cigarettes
corresponding to its sacred integer.
Yes, Puttyface had his human.
The hobby was movies.
They often advanced the one
with the symmetrical visage
and never failed to succeed
to fail to appreciate what I assume were the
“special effects.”
But speaking of Puttyface,
here it is right now
come to tie me up again.
The Salaryman
His collar represents the way
His freedom of movement is constrained
The morning train like mobile caves
Abstractly made of him: a slave
Winter
The prison is quiet.
Guards walk back and forth.
Spring Heat
The tea leaf dregs inscribed upon the sidewalk:
A garnish to the ribbon to the gate;
The crowd a macroscopic form of water,
The steel and ancient stadium a space.
Hoarding Behavior
Facsimile in water on the ground:
The fire of the sun might not exist
The trees are made of different kinds of wood
Whose fruits were cast like dice into themselves
As concentrates of time in toxic sacs
Their stones like dry-aged meat or gourmet cheese.
