BRIEF HISTORY OF TWO PEOPLE WHO ARE NEVER ALONE IN A ROOM 

In February I went a tad off my rocker 

after having shook your hand 

while I stood quivering on a cement platform 

and you sat

comfortably delicious on a bar stool. 

I drank PBR 

while you drank what I failed

to pronounce. 

I asked you if you wanted another whatever

but I couldn't afford it because it was imported 

from christ knows 

where. 

The sweater I was wearing was stolen from lost and found. 

In March we danced a fiddle dance and curled up

in the guest-bedroom 

of a homosexual 

stranger. 

You were drunk on wine, 

drunk on local gallery openings, 

I was simply drunk 

on the volume of your pupils. 

The next day you allowed me 

to spend some time 

on the inside 

of you 

but the nature of the circumstance 

weighed too much

and so naturally 

I faltered. 

In April, 

I suppose everything is due 

to unravel. 

A CRITICAL ESSAY REGARDING THE STATE OF CURRENT SURREALIST FICTION

No one really seems to be documenting the deconstruction of a womb. 

It's as if they're picking names and occupations and conflicts

out of feathered hats and writing them down 

at random and placing them

on platters

for kings and jesters. 

No one is suffering properly 

and perhaps 

suffering is only old hat and 

I am wedged 

in between my bookshelf

and lack 

of decent imagination, so please

prove me otherwise

because the metal you have placed

on my tongue 

refuses

to dissolve.