When belief is breath

Marionettes of muscle man the sober lines,

jerked into shape by the loose smiles of change-

always a little rougher on the flannel edges,

despite the miles of back in the looking glass.

You never realize how heavy a severed leg can be

when the proud laughter of a cargo pants bulge

is used to grab your apt round-eyed attention

and ginger counterposes the citrus appeal of orange:

how deep will the toes reach to find a formal table?

There are corridor passions deeper than brushed nap

but no longing longer for the shagged distance runner.

You have to label everything or you cannot sleep at night:

the beer-can grin of satiny curbside pornography

with a train whistle mournful mise-en-scene,

the cute names that rise acidly from a fluffy tongue,

the imprint of a curtsy retained in dowdy aqua towels-

there is no longer a word for the abstraction of crunch.

The clay drawn literate has ceased to live,

has ceased to spit and snort and fuck-

an ominous maroon of maples etched in the breeze

says, in charming leaves, that you will die and soon.

Would you rather bend chrome time

or expand space to be molasses slow

or give wizened advice to the overheated

while balancing on a cane of boredom

and drumming flamacues with stucco thumbs

on rough beige walls until there's blood?

When belief is breath and breath alone,

observe that the ootid will surely last

beyond the four dimensions of your grasp:

no point in getting all strung up in knots,

there is actually nothing happening

in the end.