My legs began kicking — Promised to the satyr, my legs began kicking — crept beneath the sheets, I loosen, I let up, I…loosen — the body taking on its own method of acting, taking the springs to their limits, infused by an ancient character — more madness, more dissociation, and I wonder how to cling…

Wait till I can blow out the dust a little bit more — If the poets tell it — ah, if they did it aright, there’d be some hope in this jail, in the squeamish mind that hops from genitals to janitors closets, looking for some love — is that what it is… but bear — I mean, keep in mind the setting…

Not this not this not this… — Not exactly peace — against the Sydney cement breaking into the house — storefront? — another loser in the catastrophe of capitalism — or where’s the fucking bedroom? not this not this not this — the needles flung over the hoarded cardboard canvasses — at least, at least this man…

Burst onto the scene in wordless rage — The future there, decked out in jewels, in the cast-offs of the ancient gods — the trees standing beside us — old enough, maybe, to have seen some poor goat’s throat slit, flames set to some raw wheat — while in between the letters of the blanket burst onto the…

I tell ya, thirty odd hours in airports/airplanes… — Hello, dear Scritturites. (Oooh, I like the sound of that.) I trust you’re all doing well. I’m going to ask for your patience (again, yes…); perhaps I could have made this entire update with just the subtitle: I am sure that those of you familiar with long trips will know…

The songs are stranger and the plays are longer — Yes there were lights in the belly — passion starts a few flames, always, anyways — there were the words that I read while glued to the sands, the green arms of the ocean — still dominating the memory of clear, warm April days — the walk over black asphalt barefoot…

That’s the picture I want to go on with — I suppose I scrape — only occasionally — the underside of my skull for ideas — usually, though, they’re about breakfast or something suitably mundane — while reaching for better, like the mansion that Cohen sings about with guests tossed hither and yon, over the garden wall — or what… that’s…

Saturday Poetry Prompt: take it from me… — The shadows on the yellow laminate floor are brittle are the type to be wrapped in large, larger towels, to be transposed into the next story with — no sudden moves — don’t break the dark splotches on the grey brown blue white checkered part — the sand and outside in…

Not even breath was to disturb the ancient curtains — Like when the heart and belly cannot agree on what body to inhabit — the breath of madness tinges all the developments of mind-maps that follow, intimately, the direction of scars on the head and taint the voice — well, what the speaker had hoped for — breathlessness in the…