They talk oil in heavy jackets and plaid over 
their coffee, they talk Texas and the north cold,

        As I ride my bicycle home from work at sunrise
a young fellow with an upturned collar asks me for my “spare change.”
He is friendly, as if we were classmates meeting in the schoolyard.

Inside the head there lives a lonely dog
It is drooling spit
digging through a mountain pile of garbage

Which we will never stop reading
Which is inked in no-color and dust

My steeds live for War. 
                My swords are not for show. 
My colt’s trained not to stop 

Now that we have ordered well may we turn back
upon suffering; after the fixed moments and precision,
to seek comfort in release. Peace being with us,

I am about to close my refrigerator after removing a package of meat when I hear my door lock turning and a crew of men, without so much as first knocking, walk in.

Then I will live a long and exciting life, simply by standing upright.

I dream I hurl a spear into the body of my love. I am brutal, but the spear begins to glow along its shaft and transfixes me. I stand covered in its radiance, unable to move, magnetized towards the spear that I reach out to touch and then grasp and stroke and carry myself forward along its length until I have touched the body of my love itself at the point where the spear has entered. I sob, I shake in convulsions and the body of my love bends forward to comfort me as I support myself against it in a paroxysm of leaving my body.

Why is there hurt and sorrow? Scissors, cut them off from me.