Met with Shipwreck
illegal to eat a swan in a land that will not feed you
cult indoctrination undermining years of parental investment
criticized for having subjects
too posed even though poses
reveal something about them
Gucci bags passing over homeless legs
liquor-store candescence in the wet street at night
bra and panties for the beach
the killer’s reservoir of tenderness for dogs
the days of walking along rolling some junk car tire
prisoners devouring each word
of a loved one’s letter, fingering
each indent on the page
those who, being around
identical twins, get the urge
to sew them together
your putting in more work for his recovery
than he puts in himself has him
go back, out of guilt
prison hospice
not having any of your own,
you have others read aloud
their letters from home
power directing guests
to sit in the seat
with sawed down legs
flying phobics who become driving phobics
after learning, in their therapy session,
how much riskier driving turns out to be
is that the upright body
of a shaved bear, or just that
of an old madman in the trees?
between funerals
feigning illness to get attention,
even if only clinical,
from a distant doctor father
the friend who stayed to burn
and the other who leaped
part with an embrace
when those asking for change
were at their best—how would
they react to such images of themselves?
bits of steel from the fallen towers given out as gifts
enough gay-therapy shocks
to have you forget
how to put on underwear
cold air rolls over the racecar bed
and along the floor from the window
peeled of its winter plastic for escape
the notebook doodles behind
what would ultimately be
the official Nazi logo
regarding what the spouse left behind--
lotion, brush with tangled hair--
as a sign that she plans to come back
motorcycle club patches, and the process of sewing them on
you just knew that the coffin bed would go
once your funk phase was through,
but here it is decades later
coffins afloat down city streets
driven away by the retard’s presence
less from disgust than from how
it bars all indulgence in self-pity
the fear that breathing in too deep might allow the germs to take deeper root
treated as if a child for whom they have to pretend
no one mentions that people die here too
those acting in an official capacity
to serve you (teacher, nurse, priest), somehow
fail to count as people to talk to
diaphragm and spermicide baby
does God better hear a prayer when it is from an entire parish?
illegal to eat a swan in a land that will not feed you
cult indoctrination undermining years of parental investment
criticized for having subjects
too posed even though poses
reveal something about them
Gucci bags passing over homeless legs
liquor-store candescence in the wet street at night
bra and panties for the beach
the killer’s reservoir of tenderness for dogs
the days of walking along rolling some junk car tire
prisoners devouring each word
of a loved one’s letter, fingering
each indent on the page
those who, being around
identical twins, get the urge
to sew them together
your putting in more work for his recovery
than he puts in himself has him
go back, out of guilt
prison hospice
not having any of your own,
you have others read aloud
their letters from home
power directing guests
to sit in the seat
with sawed down legs
flying phobics who become driving phobics
after learning, in their therapy session,
how much riskier driving turns out to be
is that the upright body
of a shaved bear, or just that
of an old madman in the trees?
between funerals
feigning illness to get attention,
even if only clinical,
from a distant doctor father
the friend who stayed to burn
and the other who leaped
part with an embrace
when those asking for change
were at their best—how would
they react to such images of themselves?
bits of steel from the fallen towers given out as gifts
enough gay-therapy shocks
to have you forget
how to put on underwear
cold air rolls over the racecar bed
and along the floor from the window
peeled of its winter plastic for escape
the notebook doodles behind
what would ultimately be
the official Nazi logo
regarding what the spouse left behind--
lotion, brush with tangled hair--
as a sign that she plans to come back
motorcycle club patches, and the process of sewing them on
you just knew that the coffin bed would go
once your funk phase was through,
but here it is decades later
coffins afloat down city streets
driven away by the retard’s presence
less from disgust than from how
it bars all indulgence in self-pity
the fear that breathing in too deep might allow the germs to take deeper root
treated as if a child for whom they have to pretend
no one mentions that people die here too
those acting in an official capacity
to serve you (teacher, nurse, priest), somehow
fail to count as people to talk to
diaphragm and spermicide baby
does God better hear a prayer when it is from an entire parish?
M. A. Istvan Jr., PhD, a former seller of the rights to sell the rights to sell the autobiographies of sports players, is currently a Texas citrus fruit thief. He pinches not just a few grapefruits or navel oranges here and there. He has coordinated large crews to help him plunder entire acres in the secret of night. Despite the nice physique resulting from his ninja labors, Istvan is upon scrutiny just a nice house built upon shitty framework: asymmetries and muscle imbalances galore. For this reason, he stays away from people, living a life relatively unviolated by the messages with which his society floods itself. Indeed, in light of his burgeoning struggle to cope even with daily stress (a struggle in essence to hold his psychosis at bay now that his obsessive-compulsive and intellectualization practices no longer seem to do the job), Istvan will soon most likely disappear into the inaccessible parts of his mind.