After the devil walked out,
I set the house on fire.
A cleansing.
I went North to see the See-er.
She agreed with me.
We talked about herbs and tea
and the guns of history.

My dad stepped in as if he was
there all along. I tried not to,
but the Tulips were in full bloom.
The honey bees called me
by a given name.
I am on separation from myself,

and as ghosts came and went,
I left my silhouette behind.
I joined a rainy city for a brick
talk, but we spoke nothing.

The See-er followed me with a snap.
I jumped back to her possibility.
She meant to cut it at the stem
but I got more than usual,
and the Tulips changed color, over and over.
And during the middle of all Of this,
I found what she grew.


Dark Horse boasts hands
eager for night hunt, absent
of thought;
of conscience, klepto-twins crawl under
homeless sheets, spider-walking up
discarded legs.

Pretty ladies rub more than stone
members, desperate in search of these…

Dark Horse carries its empty rubbers,
mood and flavor
Sardanapalian desires,
weaving away at rotted earth fruit, leaving
spider-silk string

around stiff ankles, legs,

marrying left to right
until necrophiliac appetite returns.