RHINOCEROS

I was born in the middle
Of the end of
A decade in the middle

Of the end of
A century, my fingers
Always slightly

Shaking, holding them
Out to the various people I am
Thinking to love

The people who sit me
Down, explain
How very inside of it

I am, charging, a thought
Bubble blotted
Woodpecker red, the come

Down of our terrifying
Anatomies, our four
Hands thoughtlessly clutching

At the flash an airplane
Casts across the lawn, sky
Cloudless, noise

Sudden as every twelve minutes
Or so the shadow
Passes solemnly, a squabble

Of birds igniting amongst
The flickered blades of the lawn
This is how language

Malingers harmless things, each being
Busy dreaming in their sliced self
Self-portrait skin, the painting reads

PAY FOR SOUP, BUILD
A FORT, SET THAT ON FIRE
The song sings "most

Of my fantasies are of making someone else
Cum," the sweating bum
Sleeps beneath the unbudded arms

Of the cherry tree on the esplanade
Where I too lay, my head on
The stomach of a dark-haired girl

Who says I’ve been coagulating
My whole life it seems only
To dissolve, to "speed

Sleep, dream, and thaw."