Two Poems

No Means


time wraps itself back up           
                                    before the week starts so slowly it can't
theorize sensation
                  it can't   stay put                               deep in a ditch the
way                        I am backward dreaming
lunch break        my worst genre is sex
how it can't keep pace w/ the leaves rate of bloom inert
                  under my heliological need         pointing out the trancelike
underdeveloped trauma hypothesis                                           it is always just a hint
the way my meat doesn't want                                     to rearrange the words all the time
                                    it doesn't want lips to sip opening w/ a jaw clicking
discarded                                                 remember how I make
flowers cry on the side
                  of paved parts of day                                         most private the time it already promised
no means no time to say when                                                       I decide to give it all away
                  and for what                        I wonder               what
performance                                                                                                 solves the proof of interiority

Before the Sentence Begins


feeling real and relevant
                                           sleeves rolled high
               I name myself event                  and you swallow me in
a just over there feeling             the cloud sound makes
               thrilling to wake up in your marshland rust to
                                                                                       drink your beer and soot
every note marine cast light in a happy smoldering home
             where news scrolls through our hands like water           how horror holds us on
                            handheld's & with each caesura we stop            and deflect
all sloppy stumbling angelus novus       ducking from blustery
& my curse is how I gag on my every demand               I spit up ghosts                        
to make my genre perceptible
                        the unheard sun          finite as it is complicit
                                    in the naming of the event