The Cut-Up

(^ me as i sat down to write this)

In the test-bungalows of Southern California my mother rubs

her glossy syntax into bowls of porcelain

A shadow, a shadow, an awkward engineer

careening down steeples of The Divine, down mountains of (something like) regret which,

as you know, is just (something like) a sheen church with dirty altar and

I, crouched down on a waning floor with blood in my mouth or my eyes or my hands

I, I, I watch this criminal amateur speak and move the way the Sidhe do

"Nothing hurts if you don't let it" and

something like a sob pours out, a ripple relation, hallelujah

Your pedantic lamasery with its

awed wash of ash and smoke is now just

Ingate silt on the bottom of a bubble universe

But then my mother the middle hydrogen tasted

And the the oxygen went out