I do not like my face.

I punish it regularly.

nails picking at my cranium,

trichotillomania;

when I look at yours I fall back within

the spiral of scared and obliged.

I should like it.

I should feel something.

I should be like someone else – effusive, beating

heart, it bears repeating that

I do not like my face. there is some irony here.

don’t let it go to waste. don’t pick up the phone.

don’t let it settle. stay on the case.





okay, let’s agree that I feel it should not be me;

rather, more, that I should not be. that my Self

should be disposed of, done away with,

pushed out, excavated, formed a crater

in my brain matter just like a follicle ruptured

under tectonic pressures a foregone

conclusion that it should be done, automatic,

systematized, basic commands, force quit

internal override.





a beautiful mix, golden coat sheen cross

betwixt a shephard and lab teeth pristine.

paws the gravel road from my place to yours,

your place to mine,

intake of breath,

it’s dark outside.

you need such assurance.

it’s a desperate plea.

it’s now so bold, underlined, undergone,

undertaking underwent, walton and the

golden boy mason unblend.





or such is my task, long as the day grows old

and the bushes clog with hoarfrost.

if they are not given love and care, they will

continue to keep you. they will panic.

they will think themselves – you – wrong over every little

thing. you will withdraw so as not to burden another

with their needs. perhaps unhelpful verbage,

perhaps just inaccurate. for they are nobody else’s

responsibility, and they do not take well to beseeching from others.

they are yours.





the place that contains the list of the containers of words