I like to write
un chien andalusia in 
flour, though not 
with the tenderer end
of a cigarette, not 
with the tree-ringed
finger kinked in six-
teen tight tonsures re-
marking, in sleight-
of-hand halos, hewn from the
too many times that a kitchen 
knife slipped in a hiccough or
awkward cough—relentlessly
 
scribbling, got me a movie around 
what louring dough wad mocking
a pockmarked mug, a face, a case
for a whispering film spool’s blis-
tering ileum, what loose huckle-
nosed vessel for pestling echoes
in—awkward coughs and tree-
ringed scars condensed or
                       cinched in a
                       flickering
                       sentiment
                       seized
                       as what
                       bubbles up
                       over the frog-
                       spawn, brooding
                       perchance, protecting
                       its echoing, red as the
                       snickering cigarette cherry    .
 
There’s so much 
flour that just drifts
into the air, like a breath
distends or disperses, dis-
severs itself, perchance,
from the clabbering at-
mosphere so swollen
with roiling sound—and
 
how should an echo of
slicing up eyeballs, freed
or sealed or seized in flo-
undering flour refined to a
picket line’s lissome in-
dignance, a human chain of
dust caked over the 
elbow, beckon my
heartbone sort of but 
breath or air or atmosphere
much more than the sobering, truly
sobering sound of me sawing down
ground up wheat to what wry and
                                      redounding,
                                 resounding, 
                           redundant, 
                     redoubling, dead-
             eyed decrees of 
       girlie so groovy—