You will be given a box containing ten squares of mirrored glass to take home.
You will make a small pile of hay bales in your garage.
You will take the mirrored squares one by one and position them in the center of the small pile of hay bales.
You will find a spot in the garage from which you can look yourself in the eye by way of the squares of mirrored glass.
You will throw a knife at your reflection, right between the eyes.
You will assemble the shards of mirrored glass into the shape of a horse.
You will cover this assemblage with a tarpaulin and await further instructions.

This Joke

As we move ever nearer to Mutual Assured Destruction,
Through the smoke one thought remains clear:
We felt something true under false assumptions,
And that was enough for a while.
Except now we see that this joke
Ain’t the kind to make you smile.

Good is in Words

We are conscious of pain,
And that pain is called “consciousness.”
Look around you, this place is held in place
With pain.

Open a book, open a door,
Room after room and page after page of
Rococo-broke boned cages and hearts
Bathed in blood.

One times one equals one.
This is the story of the family.

“Boys can you please get your fists to curl up into your laps instead of pounding on each other’s sternums already today please?”

Gina Gioventú

This woman I know
Let’s call her “Gina Gioventú”
Well I met her when she was on the street
Or at least the sidewalk in front of The Poor Historian,
Some friends of mine found her a place to stay,
But she preferred to live outside,
Because at that time, it was strange for a person’s
Behavior to be recorded on film,
And Gina was certain that her sisters
Had conspired with Bill Gates to place
Candid-cameras in any place she ever had to live in,
That was inside.

And so she slept on one of the big chairs,
And I had to wake her up:
“Gina, you know you can’t sleep here.”

She’d read my Tarot
With any deck of playing cards:
“You are on a search for self-mastery.”

She read me my poems in a low contralto
She told me I was full of wonder.

I was 18 and learning how to drink coffee while working overnight making mochas and proofing bagels and mixing chocolate powder with hot water,
And giving frat boys 75 cents change in their paws
Which I made them hold over the tip jar
Until they begged for their extra cream cheese.

“It’s fucking four in the morning. I just mopped the floor and you bros turned it into fucking Woodstock 2000 with your fucking Cincinnati Timberlands, you fucks. Drink your fucking steamers and trip out the front door and crack your teeth, all of you, please.”

The smell of steel tables, the smell of pine in the bottles of cleaner,
The too-easy slaughter of horse-flies with triggered tap water and rag-slaps.

“Gina, wake up.”
“Gina, come beat me at chess.”
“Gina, do you want the rest of the vanilla hazelnut? I am about to dump it out.”

Her name was Gina Gioventú and we ate bagels and drank vanilla hazelnut every morning for four years. And that was her name, Gina Gioventú.

All? No! All!

All praise and prayer goes to she
All remittance acts of the mission-free
Baptist’s tree.

Miss Nothing,
Hold nothing inside.
Rekindle your bridegroom,
Loosen your white brides,
Remain here, the few
Standing in the
Ever-weakening room.

Release every effortful freedom,
Make it too easy, as easy as everything
Must at last be.

Don’t forget the forgotten kingdoms
Of sinlessness and the innocents’ spree.

All? No! All!