Listen to what the tattoos that aren’t on my arms are saying
Club, club, cub
Aught, aught, evermore
Lachrymose mountains with headlines on top
That wire hanger has fallen over again
Conventional smells linger
Buttoned collars, buttoned bags
The center stomach uncoils and rises
She is no Elizabeth
He makes the face of a bull.
Something is changing even now
The lock bought, the lock locked.
Ghost of fireballs and carpeted walls
Primetime events insert, inserted
My nose overhears your nostalgia
I flush and flush all morning and walk the right of way.
Cotton jumps from boxes and coughs all night
Possessed of, anything whatever
Avant sleeping downs, the covered clothes canopy
We with either an “A” or “O”
and Mr. Buffalo, the self-propelled tightrope