from: Jon Day

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I wander lymphic. Foreclosed of all intercourse. Without any in-grown to speak of. I flounder straight into the radiation of alpha gamma theta. Waxed without waxing. Fucked without adequate. Mustard or syrup. Which litters. Which dwells outside of all. Known and recorded uterine tendencies. I can weather you out. I can. Archery you soft. Of hardly granular. Of hardly glandular. Swarm of Aramaic in the park. Gorging on strawberry jam right up until the moment when the sperm of it. Revolts. Into or out of all hormonal discourse. I stop. In my tracks and pick up the pieces of ablative. Heat window. Broken neck. Strewn on the ground. But with more force. Like a paper. Napkin.

To Londonize or to the bruise was the name of the. Game until Francis Peter Paul. Luke. Come and decipher. Grout. Ovarian as lark. A. Wheezes godly. The new gods. The old. & privately everyone. Says. Panic is the best. Cure for premature. Dandelion. Cored. Cured. Coaxed. I live here. In a bombed out factory. The back of your father’s. Station wagon. Feathered. Knuckled. Lavendered with a twist of half-light & puke. Were the young ladies. At the bar able to seat you? Were you able to peel the glass. Off. Of the glass ceiling. National Guardsmen in a slow-moving. Ticker tape parade. One that. Starts from straining and. Ends in Benjamin smoke. Memory of skimming. Milk. Memory of prairie lights recreated on your. Left palm and my right breast. No art could ever. Be more amateurly pollenated than. This.

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