it’s the body of no

like the body of Christ

and I’m gonna swallow it.


I’m feeling it on my tongue and

letting it dissolve, its two dull papery letters

drying up in the heat of my mouth.


you can’t be a bon vivant with me in phoenix

because they had dust storms in july

and the plumes were like an atomic bomb

to our love.


I suck on terrible words here;

you don’t like the Coyotes anyway.


each season it becomes more difficult

to lie

and then what happens

is that there is a cup full of wafers

and the cup runneth over

and it’s no time between sundays

and all the faces are like moons,

and too many –

because you’re worried about Bisphenol As in canned soup

and the woman with too many children.

what kind of harvest are you?


I figure we can take no more than three, at most,

and if you start seeing that many moon-faces,

it must mean your vision is fucked.


so let’s not refer to the seasons anymore

as a way of noting change.


we can’t live in pink tights

and without interest in politics.








if we refer to the seasons at all,

let it be as a last resort

when we’ve lost every other sense.


it’s only on the ice

that violence seems like justice.