death in the barracks
"the sin eater run amok"

a cellars requiem
two saints with arms brief

born from the stigmata
hammered out
towards daylight
and an old man
in a lawn chair
cleaving his upper

"turbulence in the masthead
the baptist decapitated one quarter the deck
you could smell the bodies"


for a month

nothing
now nothing but blank sheets of paper

radio blinking
roaches in the circuitry

can remember anything before this -

fire of the inevitable

hands work for weapon

forgotten of
their own skien



and you wait again

"the place was full of bankers
even angels have their price
against the house
in the afternoon sun"

the real is a heavier fiction.

disrobe the books covered with stains
like a sallow mattress
leaned against a tree

the odor

at the killing tree.
Armies pour from it

Sackcloth and ashes


no rain
on the roof of the sky
Gasoline and buoyant eyes



obfuscation of the daydream



we watch the world devour itself

manufactured maw in an off worn mill
the senses are subjects
of litigation

there is no center

whirling now around these fragments
these old stories

membrane.
drill.
shanty town.


"the barber is a secret agent
with vials of CCC
strapped around his wrist"

the cores wound

now tight

in tune