the nameless project2

7th chorus

leaves of grass
arched in submission
in the bend
of earth
             below

as I emerged
through white ground
amongst
the stomach contents
of a robotic hawk
resurrected
from runway grave

its flimsy
aluminum wings
wobbling help-
lessly
as those around me
ordered liquor

or said their
hail marys.

8th chorus

                  sun-
spitting up gold
from a scolded
ocean
as the clouds laid
bleached cotton-
gardens
in albino fields

that broke
in spits
to give a shitty-
view of Wisconsin.

green and brown
squares riddled
by endless
tiny black
varicose-
                veins
      pulsing with
the salt specks
of ground-
transportation,

I found myself
hoping
for two of the white dots
to kiss
and become

red.

9th chorus

3 hours
in the sky
without a cigarette,
and a fat man(my eyes fell out
upon the light rain
falling like
         too few
fragments
of a forgotten ocean
as we
cut mapping
through its pixels)beside me
sweating,
reading everything
I write

until now.

10th chorus

in room 203
where the exhale
of gray-glow
crawls like
a perfect poison
along an
unforgiving ceiling

its rippling expanse
spits off toward
the Monet knock-
                   offs resting
          on the sturdy necks
of nails
hiding in shame
behind the fraud
before them

piercing well
into walls
stained electric-
piss
in the tainted shine
of yellow bulbs
in dusty lamp shades.

11th chorus

a cigarette
in the ashtray
burns at the butts
of those smoked
before it

(both hers
and mine)

and the phone
doesn't ring.

I'd be ashamed
to blow my brains out
here,

so instead
I let the bed-
bugs
         bite.

12th chorus

Whitman,
            you hairy old stone
      did you collapse
under the weight

of your own genius?

'cause mine is getting heavy

and I hate knowing
and I hate not knowing

but I am holding off
on death
until my afterlife
is published.