I lather the hair
in my skin
of my pulse
on my ivory
with panther’s ink
with panther’s blood
to rise above
the antlers hung
in the hills of Galileo.


The depth of my destitute
is only measurable
by that of my peers,
calling for the cross
to be lit:
burn, burn the bearded boy
for he who speaks his mind
is mindless.


Ten thousand baker’s dozens
gathered in a row,
one hundred thirty thousand
words I will never know
to care for
or tend to
for their generation;
Thoreau does want to hold me,
tender, in the night,
to choke and thieve my breath away.
I could not speak it—right
you are, sir,
I lie
as opal in the dugouts.


I am tempted by a ticking
strapped over panther’s blood
trapped upon panther’s ink;
to pass
the tocking,
the kicking and the rocking.


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