the razor is blonde with blue eyes
the tears are black
and the edge is white fire
in the glare of the streetlight

to love the razor
it must be an extension of the hand
a bone of steel
pared to essence

the blade is quick
the edge is fear
the razor traces a red line
the drunken weave of our victim
dances for us beneath the pale moon

this is what we worship
this is what we fear
this is the way we live


chilled milk sweats through the jug
but it is not cold enough for milk
therefore refrigerators exist.
Their cool white exterior
entices milk through mimicry
into cold black confines,
that which milk finds most attractive.
Just like milk to be seduced
by what it loves and fears—milk!


only today
could we so easily ignore
people before us weren’t so lucky
they didn’t take salt for granted
they were paid with salt
only the rich had enough salt
people died for salt
their stolen blood
as red as clay

and now it is something
that pours in the rain


handmaiden of time
sister to paper and rock
shear match for wave en pied
drum of hand against a mirror
that craves a new face
wave cleave to ocean floor
clouds extrude winks of sky
steel twirl pointe exstasis
scissors close curtains
and eat opening nights
like bread lines

screen door

secret entrance to the summer
cellar, a fragile web
your hand would pass through
so easily, but never again the same


penis of technology
always hard
and in every toolbox
something you wouldn’t
take to a funeral
talk about at dinner
nothing too delicate
or sophisticated about it
does one thing
and does it well


if they’d used screws
Christ would still be on the cross


points at the sky
“this is strength”


successfully saved
from extinction