I don’t delete those numbers although

they’re dead, I’ve been told,

those persons, not numbers.  

What would it be like to edit down

a poem into its brittle bones

down to the last ash

on a burning log

down to thin veins

on a frozen leaf

twigs on an icy night

shivering in the dark gray

solstice sky

down to breath

or the last

kiss                      

before sleep?

red rays of the unknown sun came down to my new window
warmly shiver touched me, made me laugh as a fresh baby
I decided to think about the source of these unknown rays
but, suddenly a kind of musical sound covered my ears
the sound did not seem like any earthen sound I ever heard 
it was a mix of waves dancers and creation of colorful bird
it was like a smell of honey and the secrets of gold

I want to carry in my womb

The bodies of the dead women

Killed by the dictatorship

My womb

Full of old pictures with their serrated sides

Full of vaporous language

Full of gardens in child’s mind

My womb will grow like a giant piñata

So full of communists

And you'll fear them all

for J.D. Rage

I pick up a Xeroxed flyer
for a show by someone I know slightly.
Her photo shows her in leather, chains, sunglasses,
with a mass of black hair.
And I think, This is where
I want to take a woman for a date.

Allen Ginsberg, I have worn you on my back

in cafe's, on the flatlands, in a threesome

with a half-stranger, whose pregnant pause stretched out

across the microcosmic corn flake of America's crooked twaddle,

your fellatious weight wigged on the temporary

I got mighty fine problems, but…

intonation seeker

information wrecker

restless, mindless, corpseless beggar

hopeless ender

formless bender

broken token, bone winger

terror fire’er

chaperone shaker

calamity master, baits occupy hater

Mom always says I ran before I could walk
don’t ask me how