Poem to the Girl in the Library

no astraphobic

reaction to eyes, no
Suzie Q’s, intimacy with the floor & ugly pugilism

I alone determine when the universe magics up—

and Joyce tells me nil in 942 pages
and my words aren’t concussed
and it feels vernal(!) in August.

So I don’t tell you I love the weather about you.

At dawn, I down
Henry Miller’s mer.etricious
adject!ves, reverently

chewing wasps,
spreading benzine on toast, smoking
like a Saint—

as any misstep
a desk’s warmth
or, whatever, the rain.


I prefer sitting here in the sun thinking about Bataille
instead of reading Bataille
oh what a wonderful character, that Bataille! I think, and
how mad mad mad the man was
ha! ha! all the crazy stuff he came up with

fuck Bataille, too
what painter doesn’t sleep with his victims
in the sun a robot fills condoms with whiskey.


*The definition of a kiss: fascist cuspids meeting
through a layer of lips.


what does it even mean when
I with my second-rate education(all education is)
and my second-rate character in
a second-rate planet nurse

such exceptional insanity

hyphenating the horizon,
enigmatic as a dog or a shoe
(don’t tell anyone, but

I got this idea that all literature is
is a conspiracy cooked up to make
you buy books)

and language a fucking pyramid scheme


a girl in a library
is a word in captivity

begs like a garden does
her flirt, the Chinese dictionary
that violence a million ants
wake in high touch

such silence and still—everything about you is aloud

you must own a dress blue
deep blue as a pluperfect in Paradise
and verse leaves in racing

poem to the girl in the library

Kandinsky – Steps