it’s a draconic roar.

a rise and a crash; gravity,

weight falling to ground. a

contraction of underskin lining.

muscle fibers.

it’s uneven pavement.

cobblestones, graced by rain.

something aqueous, unassuming.

rising water table. flood warning.

dam creaking. breaking.

when the wiser man comes

he’ll come to a wasteland.



normal bodies – shapes, fingers,

dragged, dings and nicks and scabs –

do not do this. they do not snake and

quail and convulse, showing teeth, rows

and rows of regurgitated meat. normal

bodies do not quake and writhe in rage.

normal forms, beings, picked apart and

cast aside, plucked from their lives with

jaws pried open, held, hold. megalodon,

leviathan, loch ness in the mist. outside canals

and doorways and in sewer systems.



short of a crutch I’ll let you in on

one little secret.

I don’t know her any better than you.

I admit to my weakness.

I rely as much on myths as

any given layman.

when you’re dealing with animals,

you need a zookeeper.

someone to fence them in.

someone to go in and wrap

chains around ankles, oversee

the stables, approve the abuses.

someone to smirk at your wide-eyed

suburban fear, someone to derive sadistic delight from

your clutching of pearls. a zookeeper

can’t save you, he’ll say, when things go

wild. I’m just keeping them at bay.

when shit hits the fan, we’ll both get trampled,

and I, for one, will enjoy the holiday.





the place that contains the list of the containers of words