SHEEPNOSE

light on the gill

where the gill fluttes

slide — drip — smudge

light gill

gill heaves, flaps a

back up, spackles —

monkeyed, mannered,

affected lateral sliplight

and the light on

the brain, spackled —

deserted

stupid didactic gill

explanatorium

infinite number of rosy prosy gills —

the tiresome thing about

the tiresome thing about

the tiresome thiing about…

breathing — the

modernity —

the blunt unlucky

monologues — the fluting

opinions, the

swayback

demagogues — the

skinny plangent lambent planks

of teak in the crying eye

sloop — jump up on —

disgusted — extra fancy gills.

mudpuppy lost in a bank.

sludge of funny money

looping dumbly around the other dummies!

the rich dummies and their TV glasses.

the fat loving dummies and their favorite limits.

the tiresome thing about men

the tiresome thing

the tiresome t hing about men as deer in the bodies of the living —

and as bear-eaters —

is that they all have the same influences.

locked in slime, locked in the same slimes

flat as a line

on a locked french mouth

made to look like gills.

contemptorama — !

caught in chicken wire

with the white shit

and the elegance

and all the feathers, and the products, and the daddies.

stuck in the craw: a perfect gill:

squirming rhododendron —

a perfect cyclops

lusting after light,

or a perfect cossack

storming the people:

“my” people (gazonk)

pretty pretty gill,

gill and drug.

sturming and churning.

less than four million years old —

and tiresome

and blank,

and mangy.

Don’t reincarate.

Just fly.

Because the music is twinkly (for

the bloated corpses) we have a concrete

need — for cormorants…

who teach us not to hate —

the hemorrhoids filling up the sound holes

in poetic space.

We weren’t given words to make decadent

“word art” — feathery bough spreads over the water,

morosely

as a sauce —

circadian!

and full of cicadas.

We weren’t grim enough

to make our piranhas shatter.

Nor not grim enough to cadence down

into the ugly ugly dim mud —

the luminescent dim song

of strained peas and dirty conch.

Spattering its toe,

dragging it through the liquid silver —

liberating the elves and me —

and our happy happy gills.

And then a slither through the seaweed

(a modicum):

a fully normal

weaselsong.