Platterpuss, the cough, the kiss —
Justice w/ passion, seltzer 


foaming mercury selenide... I told you these were blocking ideas. 

I keep going, barefoot & outdoors 

the tuba bits are detouring into surf & compact surfaces

 
— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, slightly rife 

after doublecrosses. I grab my pen & clamber over to 

your jet gate where you’re holding sound-

tracks w/ pulleys over notes of civet & benzoin. 



My fly is open. I feel overextended & you forget big words — 

under whose thumb might this be? This quiet nook 

is a stretch of dark matter — the glove-as-puppet is a trap 

while phys ed shifts one martial art at a time 



into the present. Right, a physical affair is supported by a look, 

heated, promoting sea plankton. Bookmarks aren’t supported.