Manalive‘s 

what the exorcist muttered
when noting the threadbare 
seams pitched twixt the 
planes, like flickering sister cities,
a vanity using a vanity, trying 
to bore out a bulging blackhead, broad 
as a rotting and cross-armed potato barn—hmph,
 
still—summoning deep
as a back-cracked sneeze 
might leech from a
herniated, otherworldly portal
some sulfur-sick tatter of fly-tape
juggled to mite-flecked fawn’s flesh, flush
with a finicky litter of bristling Ithacans (wondering
whether they’d left the horse yet, or 
had it been just so hot in there maybe 
the whole damned thing was a
pollen-flogged fever dream)—summoning
 
deep as your throat should allow in a 
dowdy yawp from the breast of that 
low-rent Brocken pinched up proud of 
the floundering trash barge, scarcely 
a ghostship sloop left scratching the 
dandling eye of some restive sea 
hellbent on suspending a skittish sneeze that 
threatened to horse-kick all of the pin-head
ports of the molten Pacific to sawdust
sand and marshmallow fluff, this bruxist
 
hull of these tetchy obsessions with echoing
pantomime parents or forebears fixed
into mordant frogspawn smudging 
the sun into what was no less 
than interminably total
eclipse—just
 
                             summoning,
      much as one might sweat
all of those scattershot slugs
of redounding Ballantines charting
the chilblained night like stars snuffed 
blacker than gravel that’s cracked from but
cow-cudded hematite clenched long the bubbling
euxine—summoning
 
what foul phlegm left fleshing
another smug, cross-armed, stop-
and-frisk, wax-lip appraisal of 
everything stenting a face, of every 
star and shell and shaving I’ve gravenly 
whip-stitched into a fringe, crimped
cilia-slick around what weird thread,
what veins and blame and frameless flotsam
each little itch of a name
was embroidered with. Albeit, baldly 
embroidered in what warped fabric?
              
                                                      Fabric :
       moire of the world now scarred
like an eye-gouged Jasper Johns piece,
trying to bury no more than its own
warped moire worked up into
cherry-snuffed frogspawn, dashing
the scattershot birdsong back, so
flush and unplumbably, beautifully
shapeless; back into but a few
white-knuckled bones cracked,
trying to pick out the sharps
from the flats and the fence slats—
 
what’s left lolled ‘twixt dervishing worlds
that Bowie bid blue and green in egregious 
car crash? What’s left wiring irises—what
strange thing is unspeakably 
seam-ripped be-
tween them—what
 
great guiding glare or gait
of the whispering 
featherweight tissue
tucked in a mazing matryoshka,
twiddled to gobs of rock or columns
of smoke or every threadbare sheathe
that the tongue keeps burnishing
into this breakneck dishwater velveteen