Who was it on TikTok that held
Joy of Cooking in front of his chest
and had his wife shoot a Glock at him?
Béchamel a runny red. Holes in the 
bullet bread.

What story goes bang bang
through both my eyes?
I see more clearly when I'm 
shattered, jelly, shards –
blindness relieving me of the world.

I think Aristotle first said:
"Load your words like the clip
of an Uzi. Shoot first, ask questions
later." I touch my books,
line them up for target practice.

Libraries fall. Their voices and songs
dragged into a courtyard
behind the orangery. Blindfolded, 
a last cigarette. The Comandante raises 
his sword. 

Words and truth,
will not save us.

For Shay’s Word Garden

And Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge

Formaldehyde night –
the remains of etherized evening
that didn't make it out alive.

Its pickled eyes –
its bricked, blank gaze 
of darkened apartment windows.

Dead snow fluttering
in a snow globe.
My skin shaken, not stirred

by the gin-cold wind.
What miracle will vibrate me
like a break-glass cello?

Not high notes to shatter,
but low – thrombosis low
music like an absence

So the vessel implodes –
releases my cadaver
back into the wild.

For Shay’s Word Garden

This is a poem in which I tap my body 
against the curb to knock off fingerlings of ash.

This is a poem in which I jangle my heart 
like coins in my pocket as if I have love to spend.

This is a poem in which I bite the world 
and rivers of peach juice run down my chin.

This is a poem in which I'm cooked – I caramelize 
at 425° after 2 hrs. You may prefer this version of me.

This is a poem in which I play Three-Card-Monty 
with rage, skull, & star. Pay your money, take your pick.

This is a poem from which I vanish – vamoose is both
an animal and the color inside a mirror.

For Shay’s Word Garden