Death of Narcissus 

Narcissus doesn’t see the antlers 
of the murdered deer. Lips are paths, 
sad flames, waves that lick his hips. 

Cold green fish swim in the mirror. 
Flocks of pigeons hide in the dead throat, 
daughter of the arrow and the swan. 
Foam hangs from his eyes, 
marmoreal skin begins to drop off, 
a heron cruises around the corpse.
He hears fruit-like screams in the snow, 
the secret covered by geraniums.

Silk whiteness, spilled lips,
open oblivion. Eyelashes 
surrender to the dream, 
on an impure seashore.
Lips search for the straight 
thread of life. They are slaves 
of wet contours. The air bites, 
changes its sound into a blond 
litmus of salt lime and war waist.

If Narcissus goes through the mirror, 
the waters that stir the ears boil.
If he leans on its seashore 
or inclines his forehead the antlers gouge 
his side. If he opens his mouth, 
bees penetrate his eyes 
and the letters inside 
the dream fall apart.

Airwaves wrap the albino’s 
harpooned skin.  Color the hallways 
of his memory until the minute 
of silence transverses endless 
whiteness in the dry flames and drizzled 
leaves in water. Bees sting the wake 
of his corpse, demand they be given 
the gunwale of his body. 
This is how the mirror found out 
Narcissus took to the sky 
in the middle of toxic water. 

Purple Tea 

My wife’s 
got me 
drinking 
purple tea. 
Her Tia 
swears by it – 
heals everything, 
cleanses 
your whole system – 
Hell, 
cures cancer! 
She gave 
my wife 
a huge 
brown paper bag 
full 
of leaves. 
My wife 
boils them 
in a pot 
then 
extracts the tea 
and stores it 
in mason jars. 
Over time, 
it condenses 
into this 
thick purple stuff 
that tastes 
like dirt water. 
I have to 
infuse it 
with honey 
and pinch 
my nose 
when I down it. 
It’s not bourbon! 
my wife jokes. 
Sip it! 
But there’s 
no enjoying 
this stuff. 
It’s old age 
in a mug 
laughing 
its way down 
my throat 
and landing 
where the bourbon 
once was. 

Amber (no. 129 of Women’s names sensual series) 

Hey  
What’s going on  
at the Boom Boom Room? 
She’s making it happen; 
she’s out of the cage! 

She came from a den of thieves. 
Her Mom 
pickled her own heart 
with hot vinegar. 
& her Mom’s never satisfied; 
she’s often sinister 
& full of rage. 

But right now, 
all the lights are on. 

This girl’s eyes are burning brightly 
while wearing a top with cut-outs  
& long sleeves 
as the music plays on— 

Worlds apart, 
her loves go down 
so much quicker 

“It’s great to be ignored in stereo,” 
she whines like a jesting Valley Girl 
finally gaining some beach curls 
from a very special Japanese shampoo. 

Oh oh oh 
What to do? 

She’s got a famous resting bitch face 
the paparazzi wants to reveal; 
her curious reinvention 
sputters on, as if  
she came up 
with the first wheel. 

But when she opens up, 
she’s a little genius, not a ditzy brat 
with a soul of a black cat 

who’s working on her next free life. 
Like her Daddy 

who played good on his Fender, 
his fake Beatles haircut  
is now wearing thin; 
he never made it big 
in LA or NYC. 

He left his two girls home 
as an afterthought— 
the trip-lights, the mind benders 
& the fantasies, to him 
were more important  
than reality. 

& the cad 
that came to claim her, 
he was her secret lover 
until she was discovered 
by Hollywood 

He ditched her right after 
she gained the limelight. 

She claimed: 
“If I can’t have love, 
I want power.”

The Only Thing Separating Bukowski & Rilke is Catlin

On my bookshelf

The only thing separating 
Bukowski & Rilke 

Is Catlin

Like some referee 
In a boxing ring
Or a bouncer in a 
Crowded bar

Y’ see Rilke & Bukowski
Never really got along

Celan once tried to 
Take them both out one day 
For ice cream but 
They just looked at
Each other glaring from across
The Friendly’s table

With disgust

Started insulting
Each other Rilke calling
Bukowski a disgusting swine
Bukowski calling Rilke a 
Pompous Nancy Boy

Things just weren’t
Working out & looked
Pretty bleak

Bukowski was
Drunk all the time
And Rilke was always 
Spending hours in
The bathroom
Working on his 
Mustache

But then ?
Catlin’s new book 
Came out 

Exterminating Angels

And after reading it
Carefully placed it
Between Love’s A Dog From
Hell & The Sonnets of Orpheus

And now?

I haven’t heard anything
From either of them

In quite awhile 

But you never know

Last year Pessoa
Slashed Berryman’s
Tires and James Joyce 
Called the police

chili, cornbeef, & fucking a bloody cunt w/ no condom

chili,
cornbeef,
& fucking a bloody cunt
w/ no condom.

i’ve heard of improbable events like these,
rumors passed along furtively through half-remembered whispers.
old-timers called them

“a
perfect
day.”

just never thought i’d have one
quite as perfect as
this.

Because I once quoted Shakespeare, I’m considered the factory intellectual

Gary stopped in the aisle
at the hydraulic factory
and asked my opinion
concerning the earth being flat.

I looked into his Scooby Doo gaze
hoping to find a looming punchline,
anything other than the fervent certainty
that modern science
had gotten it all absolutely wrong.

neutral expression upheld,
I told him I figured
this had been decided for good and all
at least six hundred years ago,
two thousand years in some of the
more forward thinking civilizations,
ten thousand years if you are
inclined to include the Atlanteans.

I wouldn’t be so sure, Gary cautioned.
I’ve been watching those tiktok videos.

the fact you’re watching
tiktok videos of anything
other than bouncing breasts
and shaking asses leads me
to question your competency.

tiktok only shows me
this kind of stuff,
Gary said, exasperated.
his peaceful pseudo-porn
obviously usurped by
algorithms purposefully
designed by Democrats
working hand in hand
with the Chinese
to wake him from the
global conspiracy
hoodwinking humanity
into believing we exist
upon the surface
of a spherical planet.

NASA knows all about it,
Gary continued without
a shade of shame to his shadow.
they photoshop all their
satellite pictures
and they’re the ones in charge
of guarding the Antarctic ice wall,
and, you know, rockets, they
can actually only go four miles
up because there’s a dome
or, uhm… something.

Gary, stop, just stop, man,
how tired of porn do you have to be
to watch these bullshit videos?

he held his tongue a bare moment,
so, you know everything, then?

I know the earth’s fucking round!

all right, can we at least agree
the moon landing was staged?

we shook hands at that,
compromising on the utter
evil duplicity
of our government.

The Pied Piper Day Three

He suddenly realized
not only hadn’t he been paid
but he was stuck with the entire
under-twelve population
of the town of Hamelin.

Still, it solved his dilemma
of what to feed
all of those hungry rats.