New Mexico State Gem

What is your name? Never know. Hunched, picked off
a pair’a you—neither crow nor winch. A thing
god backlit in neon after blessing us with neon. And I
know what it means as a poet to carry this heavy basket—faint
mason, invisible stevedore, passage of time, neither good nor right.

I am fearful for firm and misunderstood things—
the spume, smiling inside the gargoyle, cultural forb—
they’re no different as carrion ghouls. Time
has done miserable things with light—he waves no
staff nor hauls no sack of turquoise shards. Quick!

He’s about to make a break for it. He’s about to windlass
Into the clouds, that one’s fancy. The crocodile climbs
many painted ladders. No weighted, pretty purple halos
ringing the eyes of these wordy wraiths—embrace
not knowing your name. I struggle to pull down the old crucifix.

Card Trick

look at those fucking pants
effervescent zinc-blind
icicles reaching toward our lord
and god ugly three-quarter leather
clogs the split-pea color of loose babyshit

but man those legs she pulls out
a snakeskin card her cowl and pendant
choker all those attendant men know what’s up
off to the right in awe of the godlike halogen light
the other woman ice cold in military pants

the ochre oxblood and white tile floor
the painter showing off—ighties—of course
he’s showing off the sole cardface—
ace of diamonds—joy card hidden
from the longhaired pair of rubes

trick of bathing light modern litter
the professor elevated incandescent
on wheels emanating—you know
what comes next—card trick forever
spread across the faces of acolytes and accomplices


Artifacts of Reference, No. 4


Choose Three


if i don’t paint a head up top
eyes nose mouth and ears
choose three
no one will be interested

Diagrammatic K. Koch Daydream

Wikipedia Poem, No. 704


      cordial pale want 
      the conduction alone pale 
      and still bien cuit unperturbed

      elementary yet unplayable 
      school dead feeling of intimacy 
      this feeling wanted dead

      over snowfall tumble
      warmhearted no returns 
      o which place for the dead

Woman Ironing

"[T]his  detachment... gave me a kind of vampiric energy, although I was my own prey." Ben Lerner

“[T]his detachment… gave me a kind of vampiric energy, although I was my own prey.” Ben Lerner

I watch Picasso work
The granite blob of gray-blue
Into a void, if I said this out loud
He would spit in my mouth and
Curse my mother who hasn’t yet been born
Her arms are returning, an honest day’s work, I am quiet,
Sweat, sweet black eyes,
Longing, a gauntness as from a fountain like