the practice is a sorry self

of the absent black Takamine
and soft fingertips
they used to pick tangerines
useless, riddled with flies

of tar pit tracks and sabres
wool to wear in an ice age
and hardened blisters we
climbed, rocks
oh the rocks!

of foxes feet in the cement
and we always lay flat hands
on misshapen earth to remember
that we once loved in a real place

The Real Places, such real places
we have been! Rusted car doors and wet leaves
sticking to our ankles, we clung to each other's coats
and
faces,
torn up faces
in the bathroom, on the stairs, we were all wet, all wet and left
with cement on our feet.

they are all the same face
I culled from a dream

the face of all falling faces,
stars shutting off

at the pale twilight,
just going out forever.

that aged bent and spindly traveler
gray
waxy skin and boiling red eyeballs, I will

kill him with smoke!
kill him with liquor!
kill him with rich cheeses
and syrupy sodas!

his death will glance into coffee cups I will take them with milk and

recall

that there is a blankness ahead
as it recedes
into bondages of bandanges
wrapped burns
motorcycle burns
boils on the hand

they butter you like bacon
and they're planning eat your cooked fingers
lapping up grease
and so
coat their
lips and
tongues
in the
latent
pain
of red
and white
sores
and of recalled dreams. Do you need firmer ground to stand on?