bury your funeral with the tombstone,
overgrow the fingers and the eyelashes
and find that the mouth, especially,
desires the stalactites to drip
colder, colder water.
the tumor under your breast
will bellow arcane screams,
but you bottle them
and forget to decipher the labels,
leaving the stores without canisters.
when you are not man or unman,
buy there a bearded beard,
a mustang of thinned strands
to saddle for your dead Nefertiti's locks,
who know better the barren teeth of the coming comb.
all for this: commands land distrust
and knuckled jeans will unbutton, unzip, levitate,
as she and she will star marbled in the next gallery,
transmitting life on undialed frequencies
to the human spirit's dialectic of can't and cunt.
12.28.98
(
geocities.com/soho/lofts) (
geocities.com/soho)