Now I’m an archivist. Indexer of everywhere 
I have ever been. Of every ­moment I stood 
there and there. Of where I was when I was 

Some days, everything is a machine, by which I mean 
remove any outer covering and you will most likely 
find component parts: cogs and wheels that whir just 

Does the erotic exist outside architecture? The shepherd 
asleep, the shepherd awake—his staff in his hand. Sweet 
are the fields of. Exiled from home am. A sandwich of 

We have a house. There is a roof and there are windows. I think they are square. You can see through them, that’s for sure. There is a door to go into and out of the house. It works both ways. And oh, a floor.

I am never lonely and never bored. Except when I bore myself, which is my definition of loneliness—to bore oneself. It makes a body lonesome, that.

I wear a suicide belt I detonate
And make my City of Light 
A coprophagic tomb. 

Once upon a time. Twice on her parents’ bed.
She freaked out when she found the human stain

        I sat at my desk and contemplated all that I had accomplished
this year. I had won the hot dog eating contest on Rhode Island.
No, I hadn’t. I was just kidding. I was the arm wrestling champion

He gets back in the car, resting a plastic tray of nachos on his jeans. I smell the salt, the corn, the nacho cheese, its under-smell of plastic, the way his hair smells when he hasn’t washed it in a few days, gasoline.

I wish my pussy could live 
in a different shape and get
some goddamn respect.